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About a century after the poem appeared in bookshops in Naples, onstage in London Richard Burbage’s Hamlet said to Ophelia, “Nymph, in thy orisons / Be all my sins remembered.”

Eggs, those wondrous orbs of orison, break into an omelette or simply sunny-side up.

Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle Can patter out their hasty orisons.

Other cities, too, called for fasts to ofler up their corporate orisons; and, sensible of our distress, they sent flour and rice.

While sectarianism spurred bloodshed and chaos in Pakistan and Northern Ireland, these orisons seemed far more demure.