GetPassage urn:cts:latinLit:phi1103.phi001.lascivaroma-eng1:52.1-52.20 urn:cts:latinLit:phi1103.phi001.lascivaroma-eng1:52.1-52.20

What be this pother? For what cause suspectsMy mind so many thieves will rob my garth,When all pay forfeit (as on us they light)Of being diggèd deep to bending loins?Here be no better Figs than neighbours, figsNor Grapes as pluckt by blond-haired Areté,Nor Apples grafted on Picenian stock,Nor Pear-fruits worthy such a risk to run,Nor Plum though yellower than wax virginal,Nor Sorb that stayeth slippery stomach-flux.My branches bear not best of Mulberries,Or oval Filbert men 'Avellan' clepe,Or Almond gleaming with a rosy flame.I greed not Coleworts or fine greens to grow,Or Beets of bigness by no garden borne,Or Scallion ever shooting at the head,Ne'er deem I any for the seed-full Gourd,Basil or Cucumbers aground bestrown,Come to my garth; or sessile Lettuces;Or that one nightly lustful Rockets rob,