Kind Disturber of my Rest!
Closer, closer, still be prest;
In these Arms, my lovely Boy,
Give me, give me farther Joy.
Why would'st hasten thus away,
Prithee, prithee, longer stay;
Why so willing to be gone,
Why would'st leave me here alone?
Phoebus doth not yet arise,
But in Thetis' Arms still lies;
Why would'st thou less tender prove,
To my Passion, to my Love?
Time admits of no Delay,
Let's enjoy it while we may;
Prithee, stay my lovely Boy,
Give me, give me farther Joy.