_Fain would I wake you, Sweet, but fear_
_I should invite you to worse chear;_
_In your dreams you cannot fare_
_Meaner than Musick; no compare;_
_None of your slumbers are compil'd_
_Under the pleasure makes a Child;_
_Your day-delights, so well compact,_
_That what you think, turns all to act:_
_I'd wish my life no better play,_
_Your dream by night, your thought by day._
_Wake gently, wake,_
_Part softly from your dreams;_
_The morning flies_
_To your fair eyes,_
_To take her special beams._
_Sir Gr._ I hear her up, here Master _Voice_,
Pay you the Instruments, save what you can,
_Enter Neece above._