To stand and gaze upon her orient lamps,
    Where Cupid all his chiefest ioyes encamps,
  And sitts, and playes with euery atomie
    That in hir Sunne-beames swarme aboundantlie. 176

  Thus gazing, and thus striuing, we perseuer: 
    But what so firme that maie continue euer? 
  “Oh not so fast,” my rauisht Mistriss cryes,
    “Leaste my content, that on thy life relyes, 180

  Be brought too-soone from his delightfull seate,
    And me unwares of hoped bliss defeate. 
  Together lett us marche unto content,
    And be consumed with one blandishment.” 184

  As she prescrib’d so kept we crotchet-time,
    And euerie stroake in ordre lyke a chyme,
  Whilst she, that had preseru’d me by hir pittie,
    Unto our musike fram’d a groaning dittie. 188

  “Alass! alass! that loue should be a sinne! 
    Euen now my blisse and sorrowe doeth beginne. 
  Hould wyde thy lapp, my louelie Danae,
    And entretaine the golden shoure so free, 192

  That trikling falles into thy treasurie. 
    As Aprill-drops not half so pleasant be,
  Nor Nilus overflowe to AEgipt plaines
    As this sweet-streames that all hir ioints imbaynes. 196

  With “Oh!” and “Oh!” she itching moues hir hipps,
    And to and fro full lightlie starts and skips: 
  She ierkes hir leggs, and sprauleth with hir heeles;
    No tongue maie tell the solace that she feeles, 200

  “I faint!  I yeald!  Oh, death! rock me a-sleepe! 
    Sleepe! sleepe desire! entombed in the deepe!”
  “Not so, my deare,” my dearest saint replyde,
    “For, from us yett, thy spirit maie not glide 204

  Untill the sinnowie channels of our blood
    Without their source from this imprisoned flood;
  And then will we (that then will com too soone),
    Dissolued lye, as though our dayes were donne.” 208

  The whilst I speake, my soule is fleeting hence,
    And life forsakes his fleshie residence. 
  Staie, staie sweete ioye, and leaue me not forlorne
    Why shouldst thou fade that art but newelie borne? 212

  “Staie but an houre, an houre is not so much: 
    But half an houre; if that thy haste is such,
  Naie, but a quarter—­I will aske no more—­
    That thy departure (which torments me sore), 216

  Maie be alightned with a little pause,
    And take awaie this passions sudden cause.” 
  He heare’s me not; hard-harted as he is,
    He is the sonne of Time, and hates my blisse. 220

  Time nere looke’s backe, the riuers nere returne;
    A second springe must help me or I burne. 
  No, no, the well is drye that should refresh me,
    The glasse is runne of all my destinie:  224