For I mean to make bold with my own.
What is it to me, if our Hands joyned be,
If our Bodies are still kept asunder:
It shall not be said, there goes a married Maid,
Indeed we will have no such wonder:
Therefore let's Embrace, there's none sees thy Face,
The Bride-Maids that waited are gone;
None can spy how you lye, ne'er deny, but say Ay,
For I mean to make bold with my own.
Sweet Love do not frown, but pull off thy Gown,