Supreme above us: reach to pluck him down,
This Nero of our time, this hangman king,
Who spoils our abbeys and the Church’s land:
Let him be as the quarry to thy hounds.
What matter if the ruin of the rain
Cumber our garden-paths with fallen leaves
Or ever autumn come, when nourished Earth
But grows more fecund at its fertile touch,
And germinates with new luxuriance?
Let us not waste this night, but seek a means