Busie old foole, unruly
Why dost thou thus
Through windowes, and through curtaines call on us?
Must to thy motions lovers seasons run?
Sawcy pedantique wretch,
Late schoole boyes, and
Goe tell Court-huntsmen, that the King will ride,
Call countrey ants to harvest offices;
Love, all alike, no season knowes, nor clyme,
Nor houres, dayes, moneths, which are the rags of time.
Thy beames, so reverend,
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
Looke, and to morrow late,
Whether both theIndias of spice and
Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with mee.
Aske for those Kings whom thou sawst yesterday,
And thou shalt heare, All here in one bed lay.
Sheis all States,
and all Princes, I,
Nothing else is.
Princes doe but play us; compard to this,
All honors mimique; All wealth alchimie.
Thou sunne art halfe as
In that the worlds
Thine age askes ease, and since thy duties bee
To warme the world, thats done in warming
Shine here to us, and thou art every where;
This bed thy center is, these walls, thy spheare.
from Songs and Sonets (1635)
The Complete English Poems (1991) pp.
ed. C. A. Patrides