So quicke, so hot, so mad

So quicke, so hot, so mad is thy fond sute,

So rude so tedious growne, in urging me,

That faine I would with losse make thy tongue mute,

And yeeld some little grace to quiet thee.

An houre with thee I care not to converse:

For I would not be counted too perverse.

But roofes too hot would prove for men all fire,

And hills too high for my unused pace;

The grove is charg'd with thornes and the bold bryer;

Gray Snakes the meadowes shrowde in every place:

A yellow Frog, alas wil fright me so

As I should start and tremble as I goe.

Since then I can on earth no fit roome finde,

In heav'n I am resolv'd with you to meete;

Till then for Hopes sweet sake rest your tir'd mind,

And not so much as see mee in the streete:

A heavenly meeting one day wee shall have,

But never as you dreame, in bed, or grave.