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— William Blake

Does the Eagle know what is in the pit?

Or wilt thou go ask the Mole:

Can Wisdom be put in a silver rod?

Or Love in a golden bowl?

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noun

One who, or that which, accelerates.

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Love's Diet

30 lines
John Donne·1572–1631
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O what a cumbersome unwieldinessAnd burdenous corpulence my love had grown,But that I did, to make it less,And keep it in proportion,Give it a diet, made it feed uponThat which love worst endures, discretion Above one sigh a day I allow'd him not,Of which my fortune, and my faults had part;And if sometimes by stealth he gotA she sigh from my mistress' heart,And thought to feast upon that, I let him see'Twas neither very sound, nor meant to me. If he wrung from me a tear, I brined it soWith scorn and shame, that him it nourish'd not;If he suck'd hers, I let him know'Twas not a tear which he had got;His drink was counterfeit, as was his meat;For eyes, which roll towards all, weep not, but sweat. Whatever he would dictate I writ that,But burnt her letters when she writ to me;And if that favour made him fat,I said, "If any title beConvey'd by this, ah! what doth it avail,To be the fortieth name in an entail?" Thus I reclaim'd my buzzard love, to flyAt what, and when, and how, and where I choose.Now negligent of sports I lie,And now, as other falconers use,I spring a mistress, swear, write, sigh, and weep;And the game kill'd, or lost, go talk or sleep.
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