My Dearest Dust

My dearest dust, could not thy hasty day

Afford thy drowzy patience leave to stay

One hower longer: so that we might either

Sate up, or gone to bedd together?

But since thy finisht labor hath possest

Thy weary limbs with early rest,

Enjoy it sweetly: and thy widdowe bride

Shall soone repose her by thy slumbring side.

Whose business, now, is only to prepare

My nightly dress, and call to prayre:

Mine eyes wax heavy and ye day growes old.

The dew falls thick, my beloved growes cold.

Draw, draw ye closed curtaynes: and make room:

My dear, my dearest dust; I come, I come.