The Sun Rising. by 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 school-boys 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.
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