I to Love's garden came, with my attire
Was wove with herbs of Hope, and of Desire,
Branches of Trouble too by me were worn,
Whose flowers and fruit were Prejudice and Scorn.
'Twas wall'd with Pain, and Anguish round about,
And from a thousand places issu'd out
Water of Grief and Air of Sighs, beside
Deceit and Cruelty, did there reside.
Pride was the Keeper; and to cultivate
Was Jealousy who still with mortal Hate,
Tare up my happiness ere it could grow;
Whilst, like a madman, thus I strive to sow,
Under the shadow of a thought that's kind,
I plough in stone, dig water, stop the wind.