The Sun Rising

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 the same or different be.