Here you will find the Poem The Garden of poet James Shirley
This Garden does not take my eyes, Though here you show 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 satisified. 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 name. But I would see my self 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'center of my ground compose Of Bays and Yew my summer room, Which may so oft as I repose, Present my arbor, 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 My self to die, and prove mine own.