Come,
O come, my lifes delight,
Let me not in languor pine:
Love loves no delay; thy sight,
The more enjoy'd, the more divine:
O come,
and take from mee
The paine
of being depriv'd of thee.
Thou all sweetnesse dost enclose,
Like a little world of blisse:
Beauty guards thy lookes:
the Rose
In them pure and eternall is.
Come,
then, and make thy flight
As swift
to me as heav'nly light.