So quicke, so hot, so mad
So quicke, so hot, so mad is thy fond sute,
So rude so tedious growne, in urging me,
That faine I would with losse make thy tongue mute,
And yeeld some little grace to quiet thee.
An houre with thee I care not to converse:
For I would not be counted too perverse.
But roofes too hot would prove for men all fire,
And hills too high for my unused pace;
The grove is charg'd with thornes and the bold bryer;
Gray Snakes the meadowes shrowde in every place:
A yellow Frog, alas wil fright me so
As I should start and tremble as I goe.
Since then I can on earth no fit roome finde,
In heav'n I am resolv'd with you to meete;
Till then for Hopes sweet sake rest your tir'd mind,
And not so much as see mee in the streete:
A heavenly meeting one day wee shall have,
But never as you dreame, in bed, or grave.
Submitted by Linda Godry
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive)
Text added to the website: 2006-12-09.
Last modified: 2016-08-28 16:02:05
Line count: 18
Word count: 162
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