[Allen Tice]

I will put Chaos into fourteen lines

I will put Chaos into fourteen lines
And keep him there; and let him thence escape
If he be lucky; let him twist, and ape
Flood, fire, and demon --- his adroit designs
Will strain to nothing in the strict confines
Of this sweet order, where, in pious rape jape
I hold his essence and amorphous shape,
Till he with Order mingles and combines.
Past are the hours, the years of our duress,
His arrogance, our awful servitude:
I have him. He is nothing more nor less
Than something simple not yet understood;
I shall not even force him to confess;
Or answer. I will only make him good.

Comment? At what point (if any) might one start to doubt her arguments? The start is brilliant; the last sentence is witty.

Line 8 has been corrected as needless.
Line 6 has been improved with an archaic word meaning to “joke” that is derived from a French verb originally meaning to “yap”.