But let stil Silence trew night-watches keepe,
That sacred Peace may in assurance rayne,
And tymely Sleep, when it is tyme to sleepe, 355
May poure his limbs forth on your pleasant playne. 
The whiles an hundred little winged Loves,
Like divers-fethered doves,
Shall fly and flutter round about the bed,
And in the secret darke, that none reproves, 360
Their prety stealthes shall worke, and snares shall spread
To filch away sweet snatches of delight,
Conceald through covert night. 
Ye sonnes of Venus, play your sports at will! 
For greedy Pleasure, carelesse of your toyes, 365
Thinks more upon her paradise of ioyes,
Then what ye do, albe it good or ill. 
All night, therefore, attend your merry play,
For it will soone be day: 
Now none doth hinder you, that say or sing; 370
Ne will the woods now answer, nor your eccho ring.

Who is the same which at my window peepes? 
Or whose is that faire face that shines so bright? 
Is it not Cinthia, she that never sleepes,
But walkes about high heaven al the night? 375
O fayrest goddesse! do thou not envy
My Love with me to spy: 
For thou likewise didst love, though now unthought,
And for a fleece of wooll, which privily
The Latmian Shepherd* once unto thee brought, 380
His pleasures with thee wrought. 
Therefore to us be favorable now;
And sith of wemens labours thou hast charge,
And generation goodly dost enlarge,
Encline thy will t’effect our wishfull vow, 385
And the chast womb informe with timely seed,
That may our comfort breed: 
Till which we cease our hopefull hap to sing,
Ne let the woods us answer, nor our eccho ring.
  [* I.e.  Endymion.]

And thou, great Iuno! which with awful might 390
The lawes of wedlock still dost patronize,
And the religion of the faith first plight
With sacred rites hast taught to solemnize,
And eke for comfort often called art
Of women in their smart, 395
Eternally bind thou this lovely band,
And all thy blessings unto us impart. 
And thou, glad Genius! in whose gentle hand
The bridale bowre and geniall bed remaine,
Without blemish or staine, 400
And the sweet pleasures of theyr loves delight
With secret ayde doost succour and supply,
Till they bring forth the fruitfull progeny,
Send us the timely fruit of this same night,
And thou, fayre Hebe! and thou, Hymen free! 405
Grant that it may so be. 
Till which we cease your further prayse to sing,
Ne any woods shall answer, nor your eccho ring.