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?
Saucy 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 seasons 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 tomorrow late, tell mee,
Whether both the Indias 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, I,
Nothing else is.
Princes doe but play us; compared 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 every where;
This bed thy center is, these walls, thy spheare.
THE POET JOHN DONNE 1572 - 1631
Good night Miss Feather and Fellow Larites . . . see you tomorrow