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.