I pray thee sun thou should set,
or take thy leave better yet,
wouldst at last my thirst be gone,
But alas thee linger, and linger on.
There be no flower not yet dead,
no water flows in yonder river bed.
'Tis a heat where nought doth grow,
nor doth thee ever mercy show.
Dry of skin and parch of throat,
a man doth need no overcoat.
Thy rays doth burn mine eyes,
they do not hear mine mercy cries.
If there be a place where chill be found,
'Tis there it be that I be bound,
A place where there be no burning sun,
show it to me, so to it I shall run.
(c) 26th January 2010
with apoligies to all you Shakespeare freaks