|
Then you have done a braver thing |
Than all the Worthies did. |
And a braver thence will spring |
Which is, to keepe that hid. |
|
The Sunne Rising. |
|
Bvsie old foole, unruly Sunne, |
Why dost thou thus, |
Through windowes, and through curtains call on us? |
Must to thy motions Lovers seasons runne? |
Sawcy pedantique wretch, goe chide |
Late schoole-boyes, and sowre-prentices, |
Goe tell Court-huntsmen, that the King will ride, |
Call Countrey Ants to harvest offices; |
Love, all alike, no season knowes nor clime, |
Nor houres, dayes, moneths, which are the rags of time. |
|
Thy beames so reverend, and strong |
Dost thou not 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 thine, |
Looke, and to morrow late, tell mee, |
Whether both the'India's of spice and Myne |
Be where thou left them, or lie here with mee. |
Aske for those Kings whom thou saw'st yesterday, |
And thou shalt heare, All here in one bed lay.
|
[CW: She] |