Saturday, December 25, 2010

Busie olde 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 knows, nor clyme,
Nor houres, dayes, months, 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 your sight so long:
    If her eyes have not blinded thine
    Looke, and tomorrow late, tell mee,
  Whether both the India's of spice and Myne
  Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with mee.
Aske 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, aye,
    Nothing else is; 
Princes doe but play us; compar'd to this,
All honor's mimique; All wealth alchimie,
    Thou sunne, art's halfe happy'as wee,
    In that the world's contracted thus;
  Thine ages askes ease, and since thy duties bee
  To warme the world, that's done in warming me.
Shine here to me, and thou art every where;
This bed thy center is, these walls, thy spheare.

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