Husbandry

When I began my Love to sow,
Because with Venus Doves I plow'd,
Fool that I was, I did not know
That frowns for furrows were allow'd.

The broken heart to make Clods torn
By the sharp Harrows of disdain,
Crumbled by pressing rolls of scorn,
Gives issue to the springing grain.

Coyness shuts Love into a Stove,
So frost-bound lands their own heat feed:
Neglect sits brooding upon Love
As pregnant Snow on Winter-seed.

The Harvest is not till we two
Shall into one contracted be;
Loves crop alone doth richer grow
Decreasing to Identity.

All other things not nourish'd are
But by Assimilation:
Love, in himself and Dyet spare,
Grows fat by Contradiction.