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Poem	Come thou, who art the wine and wit Of all I've writ; The grace, the glory, and the best Piece of the rest; Thou art of what I did intend The All, and End; And what was made, was made to meet. Thee, thee my sheet. Come then, and be to my chaste side Both bed and bride. We two, as reliques left, will have One rest, one grave; And, hugging close, we need not fear Lust entering here, Where all desires are dead or cold, As is the mould; And all affections are forgot, Or trouble not. Here, here the slaves and prisoners be From shackles free; And weeping widows, long opprest, Do here find rest. The wronged client ends his laws Here, and his cause; Here those long suits of Chancery lie Quiet, or die; And all Star-chamber bills do cease, Or hold their peace. Here needs no court for our Request Where all are best; All wise, all equal, and all just Alike i'th' dust. Nor need we here to fear the frown Of court or crown; Where fortune bears no sway o'er things, There all are kings. In this securer place we'll keep, As lull'd asleep; Or for a little time we'll lie, As robes laid by, To be another day re-worn, Turn'd, but not torn; Or like old testaments engrost, Lock'd up, not lost; And for a-while lie here conceal'd, To be reveal'd Next, at that great Platonic year, And then meet here.
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