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.