This large offer of our blisse,
Long stay ere shee graunt the same:
Sweete then, while ech thing doth frame
Take me to thee, and thee to mee.
No no no no, my Deare let bee.
7 Your faire Mother is a bed,
Candles out, and curtaines spred;
Shee thinkes you do letters write:
Write, but first let me endite.
Take me to thee, and thee to mee.