----------------------------------------------------------------------------
This file was prepared by Keygen Ltd LLC for The Proud Reader™ project.
https://theproudreader.com/
https://k3y93n.com/

https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCHnUg4W9wkn2ISDoCxucd_A
https://www.bitchute.com/theproudreader/
https://rumble.com/c/TheProudReader
https://odysee.com/@TheProudReader:c

https://www.minds.com/TheProudReader
https://gab.com/TheProudReader
https://parler.com/profile/TheProudReader

https://www.patreon.com/TheProudReader
https://www.subscribestar.com/theproudreader
https://www.paypal.com/biz/fund?id=5GFSVWEHUPK66

This document is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International license (CC BY-SA 4.0) https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/

Keygen Ltd LLC provides no warranty as to the accuracy of the information or text included in this document. It is provided "as is" and is for entertainment purposes.

However, the text below this paragraph is in the public domain, is not subject to the above license, and may be used freely on its own as you see fit—for commercial and non-commercial purposes. Only this document as a whole falls under the CC BY-SA 4.0. If you do use the below text, we would still appreciate a nod since we did the hard work and fixed OCR errors in many cases, but attribution is only required if you modify and redistribute this file.

Enjoy!
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Sunne Rising
John Donne

written ~1633

published in The Poems of John Donne, page 11-12
by London : Oxford University Press, 1912



Modern English version
------------------------------------------
(First letter is a drop cap)
		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.