James Shirley

The Garden

This Garden does not take my eyes,
	Though here you shew how art of men
Can purchase Nature at a price
	Would stock old Paradise agen.

These glories while you dote upon,
	I envie not your Spring nor pride,
Nay boast the Summer all your own,
	My thoughts with lesse are satisfied.

Give me a little plot of ground,
	Where might I with the Sun agree,
Though every day he walk the Round,
	My Garden he should seldom see.

Those Tulips that such wealth display,
	To court my eye, shall lose their name,
Though now they listen, as if they
	Expected I should praise their flame.

But I would see myself appear
	Within the Violets drooping head,
On which a melancholy tear
	The discontented Morne hath shed.

Within their budds let Roses sleep,
	And virgin Lillies on their stemme,
Till sighes from Lovers glide, and creep
	Into their leaves to open them.

I’ th’ Center of my ground compose
	Of Bayes and Ewe my Summer room,
Which may so oft as I repose,
	Present my Arbour, and my Tombe.

No woman here shall find me out,
	Or if a chance do bring one hither,
I’ll be secure, for round about
	I’ll moat it with my eyes foul weather.

No Bird shall live within my pale,
	To charme me with their shames of Art,
Unlesse some wandring Nightingale
	Come here to sing, and break her heart.

Upon whose death I’ll try to write
	An Epitaph in some funeral stone,
So sad, and true, it may invite
	Myself to die, and prove mine owne.