by John Harrington

How different is our end to our design
How grand the tale to what we should confess
How small our gifts to what we would posssess
How all our ends from all our plans decline

It is as if a mischief intervenes
And stops the hands of him who would do good
And alters what he does from what he could
Confusing what he says with what he means

What hope have we to warden our desire?
Only love, more powerful than we know
For lovers do, like gardens, oft expire
Without good soil, and air, and sun to grow.

You are, my Love, my sun, my soil, my air,
But with you could I accomplish what I dare.