John Fletcher (1579–1625)

DEAREST, do not you delay me,

Since, thou knowest, I must be gone;

Wind and tide, ’tis thought, doth stay me,

But ’tis wind that must be blown

From that breath, whose native smell

Indian odours far excel.

Oh, then speak, thou fairest fair!

Kill not him that vows to serve thee;

But perfume this neighbouring air,

Else dull silence, sure, will sterve me:

’Tis a word that’s quickly spoken,

Which being restrained, a heart is broken.