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| Backe to the Court, and I will lay'it upon |
| Such Alters, as prize your devotion. |
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| Epithalamion made at Lincolnes Inne. |
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| The Sun-beames in the East are spred, |
| Leave, leave, faire Bride, your solitary bed, |
| No more shall you returne to it alone, |
| It nourseth sadnesse, and your body* print, |
| Like to a grave, the yielding downe doth dint; |
| You and your other you meet there anon; |
| Put forth, put forth that warme balme-breathing thigh, |
| Which whē next time you in these sheets wil smother |
| There it must meet another, |
| Which never was, but must be, oft, more nigh; |
| Come glad from thence, goe gladder then you came, |
| To day put on perfection, and a womans name. |
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| Daughters of London, you which bee |
| Our Golden Mines, and furnish'd Treasurie, |
| You which are Angels, yet still bring with you |
| Thousands of Angels on your mariage daies, |
| Help with your presence, and devise to praise |
| These rites, which also unto you grow due; |
| Conceitedly dresse her, and be assign'd, |
| By you, fit place for every flower and jewell, |
| Make her for love fit fewell |
| As gay as Flora, and as rich as Inde;
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[CW: So] |