John Wilmot, Sonnet 2
Dear sir, I pray you, withhold your alarm
And gently treat the shades that closely press
You. Smile into the myriad hungry eyes
As best you may, flinch not at yearning sighs
Nearly unheard, the gossamer caress
Of insubstantial hands; we mean no harm.
We hark not from your past; we spectral hosts
Beset you not for some impious crime.
To wind in lewd obeisance round your frame,
And homage do unto the brilliant flame
Of ribald wit that lights your present time
From far-flung future waft these avid ghosts.
It is in times to come as it was then;
You have achieved celebrity again.
