_3_ Better place no wit can finde _Cupids_ knot to loose or binde, These sweete flowers, our fine bed too, Us in their best language wooe: Take me to thee, and thee to mee: _No no no no, my Deare let bee._ _4_ This small light the Moone bestoes, Serves thy beames for to disclose, So to raise my heart more hie: Feare not, els none can us spie: Take me to thee, and thee to mee. _No no no no, my Deare let bee._ _5_ That you heard was but a mouse, Dumbe Sleepe holdeth all the house, Yet a sleepe (methinks) they say, Yong fooles, take time while you may: Take me to thee, and thee to mee. _No no no no, my Deare let bee._ _6_ Niggard time threates if we misse This large offer of our blisse, Long stay ere shee graunt the same: Sweete then, while ech thing doth frame Take me to thee, and thee to mee. _No no no no, my Deare let bee._ _7_ Your faire Mother is a bed, Candles out, and curtaines spred; Shee thinkes you do letters write: Write, but first let me endite. Take me to thee, and thee to mee. _No no no no, my Deare let bee._ _8_ Sweete, alas why strive you thus? Concord better fitteth us; Leave to _Mars_ the force of hands. Your power in your beautie stands. Take me to thee, and thee to mee. _No no no no, my Deare let bee._ _9_ Woe to mee, and do you sweare, Me to hate but I forbeare? Curst be my destinies all, That brought mee so high to fall: Soone with my death Ile please thee. _No no no no, my Deare let bee._ _The fifth Sonnet._ While favour fed my hope, delight with hope was brought, Thought waited on delight, and speach did follow thought, Then drew my tongue and pen records unto thy glorie; I thought all words were lost that were not spent of thee, I thought each place was darke but where thy lights would be, And all eares worse than deaffe, that heard not out thy storie. _2_ I said thou wert most faire, and so indeede thou art; I said thou wert most sweete, sweete poyson to my hart; I said my soule was thine, ô would I then had lied; I said thy eyes were starres, thy breasts the milken way, Thy fingers _Cupids_ shafts, thy voice the Angels lay: And all is said so well, that no man it denied. _3_ But now that hope is lost, unkindnes kils delight, Yet thought and speach do live, thought metamorphisde quite, For rage now rules the reynes, which guided were by pleasure, I thinke now of thy faults, who late wrote of thy praise, That speech falls now to blame which did thy honour raise: The same key open can, which can locke up a treasure.