Fay, in Delurking, with a hat-tip to Shakespeare:
Spike's will! I pray thee, just one lurker more.
By Joss, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my scone;
It frets me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things tittilate my desires.
And if it be a sin to covet olives,
I am the most offending soul alive.
Yes, faith, my friends, wish yet a man from England.
God's peace! I would not miss this great delurking
For one man more methinks would share with me
In the best home I have. O, do still wish one more!
And still proclaim it, 'ffistas, through the net,
That he which hath no stomach for olives,
Let him yet come; his passport shall be made,
And muffulettas given not to him;
We would still wish for that man's company
That fears his welcome should he speak with us.
This day is call'd the feast of Cilantro.
He that delurks this day, and finds new home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd,
And rouse him at the name of Cilantro.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say 'To-morrow is Saint Cilantro.'
Then will he strip his shirt to show a corset,
And say 'This gift I got on Delurk day.'
Old fen forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember, with advantages,
What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words-
ita the Great, JZ and Polter-Cow,
Smonster and amych, Jilli and Allyson
Be in their fernet cups freshly rememb'red.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And fair October shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered-
We few, we happy few, we band of buggers
For he to-day that shares his name with me
Shall be a bugger; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
And gentlemen in England now-a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,
And hold their manhoods tight whiles any speaks
That delurked here upon Delurking Day.