Vidi in ampulla pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent: «Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis Thou, sun, art half as happy'as we, In that the world's contracted thus. Princes do but play us compar'd to this, All honour's mimic, all wealth alchemy. Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday, And thou shalt hear: 'All here in one bed lay.' She'is all states, and all princes I, Nothing else is. 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 the'Indias of spice and mine Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with me. 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 schoolboys, 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.
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