O deare that I with thee might liue,
           From humane trace remoued :
      Where iealous care might neither grieue,
           Yet each dote on their loued.
While fond feare may colour finde, Loue's seldome pleased ;
But much like a sicke mans rest, it's soone diseased.

      Why should our mindes not mingle so,
           When loue and faith is plighted,
       That eyther might the others know,
            Alike in all delighted ?
Why should frailtie breed suspect, when hearts are fixed ?
Must all humane ioyes of force with griefe be mixed ?

       How oft haue wee eu'n smilde in teares,
            Our fond mistrust repenting ?
       As snow when heauenly fire appeares,
             So melts loues hate relenting.
Vexed kindnesse soone fals off and soone returneth :
Such a flame the more you quench the more it burneth.