So quick, so hot, so mad is thy fond suit

So quick, so hot, so mad is thy fond suit,
So rude, so tedious grown, in urging me,
That fain I would, with loss, make thy tongue mute,
And yield some little grace to quiet thee:
An hour with thee I care not to converse,
For I would not be counted too perverse.

But roofs too hot would prove for me all fire;
And hills too high for my unused pace;
The grove is charged with thorns and the bold briar;
Grey snakes the meadows shroud in every place:
A yellow frog, alas, will fright me so,
As I should start and tremble as I go.

Since then I can on earth no fit room find,
In heaven I am resolved with you to meet:
Till then, for hope's sweet sake, rest your tired mind
And not so much as see me in the street:
A heavenly meeting one day we shall have,
But never, as you dream, in bed, or grave.