William Hammond (fl. 1655)

WHEN I began my Love to sow,

Because with Venus’ doves I plow’d,

Fool that I was, I did not know

That frowns for furrows were allow’d.

The broken heart to make clods torn

By the sharp arrows of Disdain,

Crumbled by pressing rolls of Scorn,

Gives issue to the springing grain.

Coyness shuts Love into a stove;

No 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 nourish’d are

But by Assimilation:

Love, in himself and diet spare,

Grows fat by Contradiction.