My dearest dust, could not thy hasty day Afford thy drowzy patience leave to stay One hour 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 slumbering 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.