O Marco Polo, before you came there were the moon and the sun and the stars, and I was lonely.

O Marco Polo," she cried, "you wouldn't go, you couldn't go! What would you be doing in cold Venice, far from the warm moonlit garden." "Sure, I'll be lonely, too, little Golden Bells, a white monk in a monastery, praying for you." "But I don't want to be prayed for, Marco Polo." She stamped her foot.
"I want to be loved.

And there you have it out of me, and a great shame to you that you made me say it, me that was desired of many, and would have no man until you came.

And surely it is the harsh God you have made out of The Kindly Person you spoke of.

And 'tis not He would have my heart broken, and you turning yourself into a crabbed monk.
And how do you know your preaching will convert any?
'Tis few you converted here.