John Suckling (1609 – 1642)
English Cavalier poet.
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She is pretty to walk with,
And witty to talk with,
And pleasant, too, to think on.
If I a fancy take
To black and blue,
That fancy doth it beauty make.
Her lips were red, and one was thin;
Compared with that was next her chin,—
Some bee had stung it newly.
But as when an authentic watch is shown,
Each man winds up and rectifies his own,
So in our very judgments.
Her feet beneath her petticoat
Like little mice stole in and out,
As if they feared the light;
But oh, she dances such a way!
No sun upon an Easter-day
Is half so fine a sight.
Quit, quit, for shame, this will not move:
This cannot take her.
If of herself she cannot love,
Nothing can make her:
The devil take her!
Why so pale and wan, fond lover
Prithee, why so pale?
'T is expectation makes a blessing dear;
Heaven were not heaven if we knew what it were.
Oh for some honest lover's ghost,
Some kind unbodied post
Sent from the shades below!
I strangely long to know
Whether the nobler chaplets wear
Those that their mistress' scorn did bear,
Or those that were used kindly.
Her face is like the milky way i' the sky,—
A meeting of gentle lights without a name.
"High characters," cries one, and he would see
Things that ne'er were, nor are, nor e'er will be.
The prince of darkness is a gentleman.
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