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. 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 th' Indias of spice and mine Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with me. Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday, And thou shalt hear, All here in one bed lay. She's all states, and all princes, I, Nothing else is. Princes do but play us; compared to this, All honor's mimic, all wealth alchemy. Thou, sun, art half as happy as we, In that the world's contracted thus. Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be To warm the world, that's done in warming us. Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere; This bed thy center is, these walls, thy sphere.

Busy old fool, unruly sun, Why are you doing this, Calling us through windows and curtains? Do lovers have to follow your schedule? Rude, know-it-all, go scold Late schoolboys and grumpy apprentices, Tell court huntsmen that the king will ride, Call country ants to their harvest jobs, Love is the same everywhere, it doesn't care about seasons or climates, Or hours, days, months, which are just bits of time. Your rays, so respected and strong, Why do you think that? I could block them with a blink, But I don't want to miss seeing her for that long; If her eyes haven't blinded yours, Look, and tomorrow tell me, Whether the riches of the East are where you left them, or are here with me. Ask about those kings you saw yesterday, And you'll hear, they all lay here in one bed. She is everything, and I am all the rulers, Nothing else matters. Rulers just pretend to be us; compared to this, All honor is just pretend, all wealth is fake. You, sun, are only half as happy as we are, Because the world is shrunk like this. Your age wants rest, and since your job is To warm the world, that's done by warming us. Shine here on us, and you are everywhere; This bed is your center, these walls, your world.