To <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Edward Guilpin by John Donne

Even as lame things thirst their perfection, so The slimy rhymes bred in our vale below, Bearing with them much of my love and heart, Fly unto that Parnassus, where thou art. There thou o’erseest London: here I have been By staying in London, too much overseen. Now pleasure’s dearth our city doth posses, Our theatres are filled with emptiness; As lank and thin is every street and way As a woman delivered yesterday. Nothing whereat to laugh my spleen espies But bearbaitings or Law exercise. Therefore I’ll leave it, and in the country strive Pleasure, now fled from London, to retrieve. Do thou so too: and fill not like a bee Thy thighs with honey, but as plenteously As Russian merchants, thyself’s whole vessel load, And then at winter retail it here abroad. Bless us with Suffolk’s sweets; and as that is Thy garden, make thy hive and warehouse this.