To what a cumbersome unwieldiness <br />And burdenous corpulence my love had grown, <br />But that I did, to make it less, <br />And keep it in proportion, <br />Give it a diet, made it feed upon <br />That which love worst endures, discretion <br /> <br />Above one sigh a day I allow'd him not, <br />Of which my fortune, and my faults had part ; <br />And if sometimes by stealth he got <br />A she sigh from my mistress' heart, <br />And thought to feast upon that, I let him see <br />'Twas neither very sound, nor meant to me. <br /> <br />If he wrung from me a tear, I brined it so <br />With scorn and shame, that him it nourish'd not ; <br />If he suck'd hers, I let him know <br />'Twas not a tear which he had got ; <br />His drink was counterfeit, as was his meat ; <br />For eyes, which roll towards all, weep not, but sweat. <br /> <br />Whatever he would dictate I writ that, <br />But burnt her letters when she writ to me ; <br />And if that favour made him fat, <br />I said, 'If any title be <br />Convey'd by this, ah ! what doth it avail, <br />To be the fortieth name in an entail?' <br /> <br />Thus I reclaim'd my buzzard love, to fly <br />At what, and when, and how, and where I choose. <br />Now negligent of sports I lie, <br />And now, as other falconers use, <br />I spring a mistress, swear, write, sigh, and weep ; <br />And the game kill'd, or lost, go talk or sleep.<br /><br />John Donne<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/love-s-diet/
