SUCKLING, John

When, dearest I but think of thee,

When, dearest I but think of thee,

Methinks all things that lovely be

Are present, and my soul delighted:

For beauties that from worth arise

Are like the grace of deities,

Still present with us, tho’ unsighted.

Thus while I sit and sigh the day

With all his borrow’d lights away,

Till night’s black wings do overtake me,

Thinking on thee, thy beauties then,

As sudden lights do sleepy men,

So they by their bright rays awake me.

Thus absence dies, and dying proves

No absence can subsist with loves

That do partake of fair perfection:

Since in the darkest night they may

By love’s quick motion find a way

To see each other by reflection.

The waving sea can with each flood

Bathe some high promont that hath stood

Far from the main up in the river:

O think not then but love can do

As much! for that’s an ocean too,

Which flows not every day, but ever!

Love turned to hatred

I will not love one minute more, I swear!

No, not a minute! Not a sigh or tear

Thou gett'st from me, or one kind look again,

Though thou shouldst court me to 't, and wouldst begin.

I will not think of thee but as men do

Of debts and sins; and then I'll curse thee too.

For thy sake woman shall be now to me

Less welcome than at midnight ghosts shall be.

3I'll hate so perfectly that it shall be

Treason to love that man that loves a she.

Nay, I will hate the very good, I swear,

That's in thy sex, because it doth lie there, -

Their very virtue, grace, discourse, and wit,

And all for thee! What, wilt thou love me yet?


Why so pale and wan fond lover?

Why so pale and wan fond lover?

Prithee why so pale?

Will, when looking well can’t move her,

Looking ill prevail?

Prithee why so pale?

Why so dull and mute young sinner?

Prithee why so mute?

Will, when speaking well can’t win her,

Saying nothing do’t?

Prithee why so mute?

Quit, quit for shame, this will not move,

This cannot take her;

If of herself she will not love,

Nothing can make her;

The devil take her.

At A Wedding

Her feet beneath her petticoat

Like little mice, stole in and out,

As if they feared the light.

And oh! She dances such a way

No sun upon an Easter day

Is half so fine a sight.

Sonnet I

Dost see how unregarded now

That piece of beauty passes?

There was a time when I did vow

To that alone;

But mark the fate of faces;

The red and white works now no more on me

Than if it could not charm, or I not see.

And yet the face continues good,

And I have still desires,

Am still the selfsame flesh and blood,

As apt to melt

And suffer from those fires;

Oh some kind pow'r unriddle where it lies,

Whether my heart be faulty, or her eyes?

She ev'ry day her man does kill,

And I as often die;

Neither her power then, nor my will

Can question'd be.

What is the mystery?

Sure beauty's empires, like to greater states,

Have certain periods set, and hidden fates.