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.

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.

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.

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?

Thus I reclaim'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, or sleepe.