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Busy old fool, unruly Sun, |
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Why dost thou thus, |
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Through windows, and through curtains, call on us? |
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Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run? |
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Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide |
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Late school-boys and sour prentices, |
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Go tell court-huntsmen that the king will ride, |
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Call country ants to harvest offices; |
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Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime, |
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Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time. |
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Thy beams so reverend, and strong |
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Why shouldst thou think? |
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I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink, |
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But that I would not lose her sight so long. |
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If her eyes have not blinded thine, |
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Look, and to-morrow late tell me, |
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Whether both th' Indias of spice and mine |
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Be where thou left'st them, or lie here with me. |
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Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday, |
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And thou shalt hear, "All here in one bed lay." |
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She's all states, and all princes I; |
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Nothing else is; |
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Princes do but play us; compared to this, |
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All honour's mimic, all wealth alchemy. |
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Thou, Sun, art half as happy as we, |
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In that the world's contracted thus; |
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Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be |
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To warm the world, that's done in warming us. |
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Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere; |
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This bed thy centre is, these walls thy sphere. |