Love's Diet
by John Donne
To what a cumbersome unwieldiness
And burdensome corpulence my love had grown,
But that I did, to make it less,
And keep it in proportion,
Give it a diet, made it feed upon
That which love worst endures, discretion.
Above one sigh a day I allowed him not,
Of which my fortune and my faults had part;
And if sometimes by stealth he got
A she sigh from my mistress’s heart,
And thought to feast on that, I let him see
’Twas neither very sound, nor meant for me.
If he wrung from me a tear, I brined it so
With scorn or shame, that him it nourished not;
If he sucked hers, I let him know
’Twas 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 wrote that,
But burnt my letters; when she wrote to me,
And that that favour made him fat,
I said, if any title be
Conveyed by this, ah, what does it avail
To be the fortieth name in an entail?
Thus I reclaimed my buzzard love, to fly
At what, and when, and how, and where I choose;
Now negligent of sport I lie,
And now as other falconers use,
I spring a mistress, swear, write, sigh and weep;
And the game killed or lost, go talk, and sleep.