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 brand it so
With scorne or shame that him it nourished 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 sport I lye,
And now as other Fawkners use,
I spring a mistresses sweare, write, sigh and weepe:
And the game kill'd, or lost, goe talke, and sleepe.