English Honours

The Sun Rising John Donne  - 1572-1631         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 thi...

Holy Sonnets: Death, be not proud BY  JOHN DONNE Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow, And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery. Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.