When I grave, take with you words to steal:
Love was ne'er meant for one full belly,
For love must fill more and fill
many;
Heart speak swells when feast neglect plenty,
Whence love came unto me absent meal.

Yet unto you- absent still of
sup,
Station'd as a dove atop of
birch;
Swinging loose from bough to bough I search,
For my yet ripe pear on this here perch,
Where your milky face stolen my
cup.

Do not plea teary-eyed my sweet love,
'Tis only my feathers that may shed,
For I have had my end of heart's fed;
So love for us both when I am dead,
Swing on your own now, as I above.