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Ad Solem. To the Sunne |
Song |
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Buisy old foole, vnruly Sunn [260] |
Why dost thou thus |
Through windowes and through curtaynes call on vs? |
Must to thy motion Lovers seasons runn? |
Sawcy Pedantique wretch goe chide |
Late Schooleboyes, and fowre-prentises |
Goe tell Court huntsmen that the king will ride |
Call Country Ants to haruest offices |
Loue, all alike, no season knowes nor clime |
Nor howres, dayes, months, wch ar the raggs of time |
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Thy beames so reverend and strong |
Dost thou not thinke |
I could eclipse and clowd them with a winke |
But that I would not loose her sight so long? |
If her eyes haue not blinded thine |
Looke, and to morrow late tell mee |
Whether both Indyas of Spice and Mine |
Bee where thou leftst them, or lye here with mee |
Aske for those kings w.ch thou sawst yesterday |
And thou shalt heare All heere in one bedd lay |
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Shee is all States, and all Princes I |
Nothing else is |
Princes do but play vs, compard with this |
All Honour's mimick, all wealth Alchimy |
Thou Sunne art halfe as happy as wee |
In that the world's contracted thus |
Thine Age askes ease, and since thy dutyes bee |
To warme the world, Thats donne in warming vs |
Shine heere to vs, and thou art every where |
This bedd thy Center is, these walls thy Spheare
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[CW: When I] |