To Mr. Edward Guilpin by John Donne

Even as lame things thirst their perfection, so / The slimy rhymes bred in our vale below, / Bearing with them much of my love and heart, / Fly unto that Parnassus, where thou art. / There thou o'erseest London: here I have been / By staying in London, too much overseen. / Now pleasure's dearth our city doth posses, / Our theatres are filled with emptiness; / As lank and thin is every street and way / As a woman delivered yesterday. / Nothing whereat to laugh my spleen espies / But bearbaitings or Law exercise. / Therefore I'll leave it, and in the country strive / Pleasure, now fled from London, to retrieve. / Do thou so too: and fill not like a bee / Thy thighs with honey, but as plenteously / As Russian merchants, thyself's whole vessel load, / And then at winter retail it here abroad. / Bless us with Suffolk's sweets; and as that is / Thy garden, make thy hive and warehouse this.