Sorrow slowly killeth any,
Sudden joy soon murders many;
Then, sweet, if you would end me,
'Tis a fond course with ling'ring grief to spend me.
For, quickly to dispatch me,
Your only way is, in your arms to catch me,
And give me dove-like kisses:
For such excessive and unlooked-for blisses
Will so much over-joy me,
As they will straight destroy me.