Poems, By J. D. [i.e. John Donne] With Elegies on the Authors Death |
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Loves diet.
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 | Poems, By J. D. [i.e. John Donne] |  |
Loves diet.
To what a combersome unwieldinesse
And burdenous corpulence my love had growne,
But that I did, to make it lesse,
And keepe it in proportion,
Give it a diet, made it feed upon
That which love worst endures, discretion.
And burdenous corpulence my love had growne,
But that I did, to make it lesse,
And keepe it in proportion,
Give it a diet, made it feed upon
That which love worst endures, discretion.
Above one sigh a day I'allow'd him not,
Of which my fortune, and my faults had part;
And if sometimes by stealth he got
A she sigh from my mistresse heart,
And thought to feast on that, I let him see
'Twas neither very sound, nor meant to mee;
Of which my fortune, and my faults had part;
And if sometimes by stealth he got
A she sigh from my mistresse heart,
And thought to feast on that, I let him see
'Twas neither very sound, nor meant to mee;
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If he wroung from mee'a teare, I brin'd it so
With scorne or shame, that him it nourish'd not;
If he suck'd hers, I let him know
'Twas not a teare, which hee had got,
His drinke was counterfeit, as was his meat;
For, eyes which rowle towards all, weepe not, but sweat.
With scorne or shame, that him it nourish'd not;
If he suck'd hers, I let him know
'Twas not a teare, which hee had got,
His drinke was counterfeit, as was his meat;
For, eyes which rowle towards all, weepe not, but sweat.
What ever he would dictate, I writ that,
But burnt my letters; When she writ to me,
And that that favour made him fat,
I said, if any title bee
Convey'd by this, Ah, what doth it availe,
To be the fortieth name in an entaile?
But burnt my letters; When she writ to me,
And that that favour made him fat,
I said, if any title bee
Convey'd by this, Ah, what doth it availe,
To be the fortieth name in an entaile?
Thus I redeem'd my buzard love, to flye
At what, and when, and how, and where I chuse;
Now negligent of sports I lye,
And now as other Fawkners use,
I spring a mistresse, sweare, write, sigh and weepe:
And the game kill'd, or lost, goe talke, and sleepe.
At what, and when, and how, and where I chuse;
Now negligent of sports I lye,
And now as other Fawkners use,
I spring a mistresse, sweare, write, sigh and weepe:
And the game kill'd, or lost, goe talke, and sleepe.
| Poems, By J. D. [i.e. John Donne] | |