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.

     Much of Donne’s twentieth-century vogue was due to his 
challenging the authority of the new Gutenberg age to invest 
him with the stigmata of uniform repeatable typography and 
with the motives of precise visual measurement. In like manner, 
Andrew Marvell’s “To his Coy Mistress” was full of contempt for 
the new spirit of measurement and calculation of time and