Busy old fool, unruly Sun, <br /> Why dost thou thus, <br /> Through windows, and through curtains, call on <br />us? <br /> Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run? <br /> Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide <br /> Late schoolboys, and sour prentices, <br /> Go tell court-huntsmen that the king will ride, <br /> Call country ants to harvest offices, <br /> Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime, <br /> Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of <br />time. <br /> <br /> Thy beams, so reverend and strong <br /> Why shouldst thou think? <br /> I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink, <br /> But that I would not lose her sight so long: <br /> If her eyes have not blinded thine, <br /> Look, and tomorrow late, tell me <br /> Whether both the'Indias of spice and mine <br /> Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with me. <br /> Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday, <br /> And thou shalt hear: 'All here in one bed lay.' <br /> <br /> She'is all states, and all princes I, <br /> Nothing else is. <br /> Princes do but play us; compar'd to this, <br /> All honour's mimic, all wealth alchemy. <br /> Thou, sun, art half as happy'as we, <br /> In that the world's contracted thus; <br /> Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be <br /> To warm the world, that's done in warming us. <br /> Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere; <br /> This bed thy centre is, these walls, thy sphere.<br /><br />John Donne<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-sun-rising/
