Most blessed night, the happy time for Love,
The shade for Lovers, and their Loves delight,
The raigne of Love for seruants free from spight,
The hopefull seasons, for joyes sports to moove.
Now hast thou made thy glory higher proove,
Then did the God, whose pleasant Reede did smite
All Argus eyes into a death-like night,
Till they were safe, that none could Love reproove.
Now thou hast cloas'd those eyes from prying sight
That nourish Jealousie, more than joyes right,
While vaine Suspition fosters their mistrust,
Making sweet sleepe to master all suspect,
Which els their privat feares would not neglect,
But would embrace both blinded, and unjust.