• “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.”

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