THE RISING SUN 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 schoolboys, 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 theIndias of spice and mine Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with me. Ask for those kings whom thou sawst yesterday, And thou shalt hear: All here in one bed lay. Sheis all states, and all princes I, Nothing else is. Princes do but play us; compard to this, All honours mimic, all wealth alchemy. Thou, sun, art half as happyas we, In that the worlds contracted thus; Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be To warm the world, thats done in warming us. Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere; This bed thy centre is, these walls, thy sphere.
Posted on: Fri, 05 Dec 2014 17:13:10 +0000
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