Love's Diet

by John Donne

　　And burdenous 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 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 mistress' heart,

　　And thought to feast upon that, I let him see

　　'Twas neither very sound, nor meant to me.

　　If he wrung from me a tear, I brined it so

　　With scorn and shame, that him it nourish'd not;

　　 If he suck'd 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 writ that,

　　But burnt her letters when she writ to me;

　　 And if that favour made him fat,

　　 I said, "If any title be

　　Convey'd by this, ah! what doth it avail,

　　To be the fortieth name in an entail?"

　　Thus I reclaim'd my buzzard love, to fly

　　At what, and when, and how, and where I choose.

　　 Now negligent of sports I lie,

　　 And now, as other falconers use,

　　I spring a mistress, swear, write, sigh, and weep;

　　And the game kill'd, or lost, go talk or sleep.