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- The Sun Rising
- BY JOHN DONNE
- Busy old fool, unruly sun,
- Why dost thou thus,
- Through windows, and through curtains call on us?
- Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run?
- Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide
- 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 strong
- 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 th' Indias of spice and mine
- Be where thou leftst 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's all states, and all princes, I,
- Nothing else is.
- Princes do but play us; compared to this,
- All honor's mimic, all wealth alchemy.
- Thou, sun, art 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 everywhere;
- This bed thy center is, these walls, thy sphere.
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