BUSIE old foole, unruly Sunne,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windowes, and through curtaines call on us?
Must to thy motions lovers’ seasons run?
Saucy pedantique wretch, go chide
Late schoole boyes, and sour prentices,
Go tell court-huntsmen, that the king will ride,
Call country ants to harvest offices;
Love, all alike, no season knowes, nor clyme,
Nor houres, dayes, monthes, which are the rags of time.
Thy beames, so reverend, and strong
Why should’st thou thinke?
I could eclipse and cloud them with a winke,
But that I would not lose her sight so long:
If her eyes hath not blinded thine,
Looke, and tomorrow late, tell me,
Whether both the India’s of spice and mine
Be where thou left’st them, or lie here with me.
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, I,
Nothing else is.
Princes do but play us; compar’d to this,
All honour’s mimic; all wealth alchemy.
Thou, Sunne, art halfe as happy as we,
In that the world’s contracted thus;
Thine age askes ease, and since thy duties be
To warme the world, that’s done in warming us.
Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere;
This bed thy centre is, these walls, thy sphere.