Come away, arm'd with loues delights,
          Thy spritefull graces bring with thee,
      When loues longing fights,
          They must the sticklers be.
Come quickly, come, the promis'd houre is wel-nye spent,
And pleasure being too much deferr'd looseth her best content.

       Is shee come ?   O, how neare is shee ?
           How farre yet from this friendly place ?
       How many steps from me ?
           When shall I her imbrace ?
These armes Ile spred, which onely at her sight shall close,
Attending as the starry flowre that the Suns noone-tide knowes.