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.

You old and foolish sun, why are you bothering us? Why do you call on us through windows and curtains? Do lovers have to follow your schedule? You rude, bossy creature, go bother schoolboys and apprentices. Tell the court huntsmen the king will ride today, And call the country ants to their harvest duties. Love doesn't follow seasons or climates, Nor does it care about hours, days, or months, which are just time's leftovers. Your beams are so respected and strong, Why do you think that? I could block them with a wink, But I don't want to miss seeing her for that long. If her eyes haven't blinded you, Look, and tomorrow tell me, If the riches of the East Indies are still there, Or if they are here with me. Ask about the kings you saw yesterday, And you'll hear they are all here in bed with us. She is all countries, and I am all princes, Nothing else matters. Princes just imitate us; compared to this, All honor is fake, all wealth is like alchemy. Sun, you are only half as happy as we are, Because the world is smaller now. Your old age needs rest, and since your job is To warm the world, that's done by warming us. Shine on us here, and you are shining everywhere; This bed is your center, these walls, your universe.