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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]