|
| Near death inflicts this lethargie, |
| And thus I murmur in my sleep; |
| Impute this idle talk, to that I go, |
| For dying men talk often so. |
|
| Twicknam Garden. |
|
| Blasted with sighs, and surrounded with tears, |
| Hither I come to seek the spring, |
| And at mine eyes, and at mine years, |
| Receive such balme as else cures every thing: |
| But O, self-traitor, I do bring |
| The spiders love, which transubstantiates all, |
| And can convert Manna to gall, |
| And that this place may throughly be thought |
| True Paradise, I have the Serpent brought. |
|
| 'Twere wholsomer 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 since I cannot this disgrace |
| Indure, nor leave this garden, Love let me |
| Some sensless piece of this place be; |
| Make me a mandrake, so I may grow here, |
| Or a stone fountaine weeping out my year. |
|
| Hither with Chrystal vials, lovers come, |
| And take my tears, which are loves 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,
|
[CW: Nor] |