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John Donne - Love`s Diet
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To what a cumbersome unwieldiness 
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.
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