All Here In One Bed Lay

Busy old fool, 
Sitting in garage,
Through wind, and through curvy roads, call on us?
Must to those motions lovers' seasons run?
Panic wretch, go on speed
Late night, tire burns,
Go tell racers that the king will ride,
Call all audiences to harvest roads,
Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

Why should thou think?
I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,
But that I would lose her sight by a corner:
If her eyes have not blinded thin,
Look, and tomorrow late, tells me
Whether both are of spice and mine
Be where thou lefts them, or lie here with me.
Ask for those kings whom thou saw’s yesterday,
And thou shall hear: 'All here in one bed lay.'

To warm the world, with the art of speed
Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere;