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 again.

These glories while you dote upon,
I envy not your spring nor pride;
Nay boast the summer all your own,
My thoughts with less 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 violet's drooping head,
On which a melancholy tear
The discontented morn hath shed.

Within their buds let roses sleep,
And virgin lilies on their stem,
Till sighs from lovers glide, and creep
Into their leaves, to open them.

I' th' centre of my ground compose
Of bays and yew my summer-room,
Which may, so oft as I repose,
Present my arbour, and my tomb.

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 charm me with their shames of art,
Unless some wandering 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 own.