The Sunne Rising <br />By John Donne<br /> Busy old fool, unruly sun,<br /> Why dost thou thus,<br />Through windows, and through curtains call on us?<br />Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run?<br /> Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide<br /> Late school boys 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 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 th' 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's all states, and all princes, I,<br /> Nothing else is.<br />Princes do but play us; compared to this,<br />All honor'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 center is, these walls, thy sphere.
