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Poem	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 th' Indias of spice and mine Be where thou left'st them, or lie here with me. Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday, And thou shalt hear 'All here in one bed lay'. She is all states, and all princes I; Nothing else is. Princes do but play us; compared to this, All honour's mimic, all wealth alchemy. Thou, sun, art half as happy as we, In that the world's contracted thus; Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be To warm 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.
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