TWICKENHAM GARDENI

BLASTED with sighs, and surrounded2 with tears, Hither I come to seek the spring,

And at mine eyes, and at mine ears, Receive such balms as else cure every thing. But O! self-traitor, I do bring

The spider3 Love, which transubstantiates all, And can convert manna to gall;

And that this place may thoroughly be thought True Paradise, I have the serpent brought.

'T were wholesomer for me that winter did Benight the glory of this place,

And that a grave frost did forbid

These trees to laugh and mock me to my face;
But that I may not this disgrace

Endure, nor yet leave loving, Love, let me
Some senseless piece of this place be;
Make me a mandrake,4 so I may grow here,
Or a stone fountain weeping out my year.

Hither with crystal phials, lovers, come,

And take my tears, which are Love's wine,

And try your mistress' tears at home,
For all are false, that taste not just like mine.
Alas! hearts do not in eyes shine,

Nor can you more judge women's thoughts by tears,
Than by her shadow what she wears.

O pèrverse sex, where none is true but she,
Who's therefore true, because her truth kills me.

THE MESSAGE

SEND home my long stray'd eyes to me, Which, O! too long have dwelt on thee; Yet since there they have learn'd such ill, Such forced fashions,

And false passions,

That they be

Made by thee

Fit for no good sight, keep them still.

Send home my harmless heart again,

Which no unworthy thought could stain ;

But if it be taught by thine

To make jestings

Of protestings,

And break both

Word and oath,

Keep it, for then 't is none of mine.

Yet send me back heart and eyes,

my

That I may know and see thy lies,

And may laugh and joy, when thou

Art in anguish

And dost languish

For some one

That will none,

Or prove as false as thou art now.

LOVE'S DIET

To what a cumbersome unwieldiness

And burdenous corpulence my love had grown,
But that I did, to make it less,

And keep it in proportiön,

Give it a diet, made it feed upon

That which love worst endures, discretiön.

Above one sigh a day I allow'd him not,

Of which fortune, my

and my

faults had part;

And if sometimes by stealth he got

A she-sigh from my mistress' heart, And thought to feast on that, I let him see 'T was neither very sound, nor meant to me.

If he wrung from me a tear, I brined it so
With scorn or shame, that him it nourish'd not;
If he suck'd hers, I let him know

'T was not a tear which he had got ;

His drink was counterfeit, as was his meat;

For eyes, which roll towards all, weep not, but sweat.

Whatever he would dictate I writ that,

But burnt her letters when she writ to me ;