When I began my love to sow,
— Because with Venus' doves I ploughed,
Fool that I was, I did not know
— That frowns for furrows were allowed.

The broken heart, to make clods, torn
— By the sharp harrows of disdain,
Crumbled by pressing rolls of scorn,
— Gives issue to the springing grain.

Coyness shuts love into a stove;
— So frost-bound lands their own heat feed:
Neglect sits brooding upon love
— As pregnant snow on winter-seed.

The harvest is not till we two
— Shall into one contracted be;
Love's crop alone doth richer grow,
— Decreasing to identity.

All other things not nourished are
— But by assimilation:
Love, in himself and diet spare,
— Grows fat by contradiction.

When I began my love to sow,
— Because with Venus' doves I ploughed,
Fool that I was, I did not know
— That frowns for furrows were allowed.

The broken heart, to make clods, torn
— By the sharp harrows of disdain,
Crumbled by pressing rolls of scorn,
— Gives issue to the springing grain.

Coyness shuts love into a stove;
— So frost-bound lands their own heat feed:
Neglect sits brooding upon love
— As pregnant snow on winter-seed.

The harvest is not till we two
— Shall into one contracted be;
Love's crop alone doth richer grow,
— Decreasing to identity.

All other things not nourished are
— But by assimilation:
Love, in himself and diet spare,
— Grows fat by contradiction.