The Sun Rising

Busy old fool, unruly Sun,

Why dost thou thus,

Through windoes, and through curtains call on us?

Must to thy motions lover's seasons run?

Saucy pedantic wreth, go chile

Late school-boys, and sour 'prentices,

Go tell court-huntsmen that the King will Ride,

Call country ants to harvest offices,

Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime,

Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

Thy beams, so reverend, and stong

Why shouldst thou think?

I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,

But that I would not lose her sight so long:

If her eyes have not blinded thine,

Look, and tomorrow late, tell me,

Whether both the Indians of spice and mine

Be where thou left'st them, or lie here with me.

Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday,

And thou shalt hear, 'All here in one bed lay.'

She is all States, and all Princes, I;

Nothing else is.

Princes do but play us; compar'd to this

all honour's mimic; all wealth alchemy.

Thou Sun an half as happy as we,

In that the world's contracted thus;

Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be

To warm the world, that's done in warming us.

Shine here to us, and thou art every where;

This bed thy centre is, these walls, thy sphere.

JOHN DONNE (1572-1631)