1

Busy old fool, unruly Sun,

2

Why dost thou thus,

3

Through windows, and through curtains, call on us?

4

Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run?

5

Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide

6

Late schoolboys, and sour prentices,

7

Go tell court-huntsmen that the king will ride,

8

Call country ants to harvest offices,

9

Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime,

10

Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

11

Thy beams, so reverend and strong

12

Why shouldst thou think?

13

I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,

14

But that I would not lose her sight so long:

15

If her eyes have not blinded thine,

16

Look, and tomorrow late, tell me

17

Whether both the Indias of spice and mine

18

Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with me.

19

Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday,

20

And thou shalt hear: "All here in one bed lay."

21

She is all states, and all princes I,

22

Nothing else is.

23

Princes do but play us; compar'd to this,

24

All honour's mimic, all wealth alchemy.

25

Thou, sun, art half as happy as we,

26

In that the world's contracted thus;

27

Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be

28

To warm the world, that's done in warming us.

29

Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere;

30

This bed thy centre is, these walls, thy sphere.