John Donne




The Sunne Rising

            Busie old foole, unruly Sunne, 
            Why dost thou thus, 
Through windowes, and through curtaines call on us?  
Must to thy motions lovers’ seasons run? 
            Sawcy pedantique wretch, goe chide 
            Late schoole boyes and sowre prentices,  
      Goe tell Court-huntsmen that the King will ride,  
      Call countrey ants to harvest offices, 
Love, all alike, no season knowes nor clyme, 
Nor houres, dayes, moneths, which are the rags of time.

            Thy beames, so reverend and strong 
            Why shouldst thou thinke? 
I could eclipse and cloud them with a winke,  
But that I would not lose her sight so long; 
            If her eyes have not blinded thine, 
            Looke, and to morrow late, tell mee,  
      Whether both the’Indias of spice and Myne 
      Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with mee. 
Ask for those Kings whom thou saw’st yesterday,  
And thou shalt heare, All here in one bed lay.

            She’is all States, and all Princes, I, 
            Nothing else is. 
Princes doe but play us; compar’d to this,  
All honor’s mimique, all wealth alchimie. 
            Thou sunne, art halfe as happy’as wee, 
            In that the world’s contracted thus. 
      Thine age askes ease, and since thy duties bee  
      To warme the world, that’s done in warming us. 
Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere;  
This bed thy center is, these walls, thy spheare.