Come To Me, God; But Do Not Come To Me As To The General Doom In Power; Or Come Thou In That State When Thou Thy Laws Did'St Promulgate, Whenas The Mountain Quaked For Dread, And Sullen Clouds Bound Up His Head. No; Lay Thy Stately Terrors By To Talk With Me Familiarly; For If Thy Thunder-Claps I Hear, I Shall Less Swoon Than Die For Fear. Speak Thou Of Love And I'll Reply By Way Of Epithalamy, Or Sing Of Mercy And I'll Suit To It My Viol And My Lute; Thus Let Thy Lips But Love Distil, Then Come, My God, And Hap What Will.