This Garden does not take my eyes, <br />Though here you show how art of men <br />Can purchase Nature at a price <br />Would stock old Paradise again. <br /> <br />These glories while you dote upon, <br />I envy not your spring nor pride, <br />Nay, boast the summer all your own, <br />My thoughts with less are satisified. <br /> <br />Give me a little plot of ground, <br />Where might I with the Sun agree, <br />Though every day he walk the round, <br />My Garden he should seldom see. <br /> <br />Those Tulips that such wealth display, <br />To court my eye, shall lose their name, <br />Though now they listen, as if they <br />Expected I should praise their name. <br /> <br />But I would see my self appear <br />Within the Violet's drooping head, <br />On which a melancholy tear <br />The discontented morn hath shed. <br /> <br />Within their buds let Roses sleep, <br />And virgin Lilies on their stem, <br />Till sighs from lovers glide, and creep <br />Into their leaves to open them. <br /> <br />I'th'center of my ground compose <br />Of Bays and Yew my summer room, <br />Which may so oft as I repose, <br />Present my arbor, and my tomb. <br /> <br />No woman here shall find me out, <br />Or if a chance do bring one hither, <br />I'll be secure, for round about <br />I'll moat it with my eyes' foul weather. <br /> <br />No bird shall live within my pale, <br />To charm me with their shames of art, <br />Unless some wandering Nightingale <br />Come here to sing and break her heart. <br /> <br />Upon whose death I'll try to write <br />An epitaph in some funeral stone, <br />So sad, and true, it may invite <br />My self to die, and prove mine own.<br /><br />James Shirley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-garden-9/
