Come when I cal, or tarrie til I come, if you bee deafe I must prove dumb. Stay a while my heavn'ly joy, I come with wings of love, when envious eyes time shal remove. If thy desire ever knew the griefe of delay, no danger could stand in thy way. O die not, ad this sorrow to my griefe that languish here, wanting relief. What need wee languish? can love quickly flie: feare ever hurts more than jealousie. Then securely envie scorning, let us end with joy our mourning, jealousie still defie, and love till we die.