Sir John Suckling, The Poems and Plays and Other Remains of Sir John Suckling Volume 1, Ed. William Carew Hazlitt, Reeves and Turner, London, 1892 (Kessinger Reprint)

If when Don Cupid’s dart

Doth would a heart,

We hide our grief

And shun relief;

The smart increaseth on that score;

For wounds unsearched but rankle more.

Then if we whine, look pale, and tell our tale,

Men are in pain

For us again;

So neither speaking doth become

The lover’s state, nor being dumb.

When this I do descry,

Then thus think I:

Love is the fart

Of every heart;

It pains a man when ’tis kept close,

And other doth offend when ’tis let loose.

(If when Don Cupid’s dart, Complete)

For ’t has indeed too strong a custom been

To carry out more wit than we bring in.

You have done otherwise: brought home, my lord,

The choicest things famed countries do afford:

Malvezzi by your means is English grown,

And speaks our tongue as well now as his own.

(To His Much Honoured the Lord Lepington, Upon His Translation of Malvezzi, His “Romulus” and “Tarquin.”)

He does not show us Rome great suddenly,

As if the empire were a tympany,

But gives it natural growth, tells how and why

The little body grew so large and high.

(To His Much Honoured the Lord Lepington, Upon His Translation of Malvezzi, His “Romulus” and “Tarquin.”)

’Tis he that doth the Roman dame restore,

Makes Lucrece chaster for her being whore;

Gives her a kind revenge for Tarquin’s sin;

For ravish’d first, she ravisheth again.

(To His Much Honoured the Lord Lepington, Upon His Translation of Malvezzi, His “Romulus” and “Tarquin.”)

J.S.: Alas! Tom, I am flesh and blood,

And was consulting how I could

In spite of masks and hoods descry

The parts denied unto the eye;

I was undoing all she wore,

And had she walked but one turn more,

Eve in her first state had not been

More naked, or more plainly seen.

T.C: ’Twas well for thee she left the place,

There is great danger in that face;

But hadst thou viewed her leg and thigh

And upon that discovery

Searched after parts that are more dear

(As fancy seldom stops so near),

No time or age had ever seen

So lost a thing as thou had been.

(Upon My Lady Carlisle’s Walking in Hampton Court Garden)

Fie upon hearts that burn with mutual fire:

I hate two minds that breathe but one desire:

Were I to curse th’ unhallow’d sort of men,

I’d wish them to love, and be lov’d again.

Love’s a camelion, that lives on mere air;

And surfeits when it comes to grosser fare:

’Tis petty jealousies and little fears,

Hopes join’d with doubts, and joys with April tears,

That crowns our love with pleasures: these are gone

When once we come to full fruition.

Like waking in a morning, when all night

Our fancy hath been fed with true delight.

O, what a stroke ’twould be! sure I should die,

That monster expectation feeds too high

For any woman e’er to satisfy:

And no brave spirit ever cared for that,

Which in down beds with ease he could come at;

She’s but an honest whore that yields, although

She be as cold as ice, as pure as snow:

He that enjoys her hath no more to say,

But keep us fasting, if you’ll have us pray.

Then, fairest mistress, hold the power you have,

By still denying what we still do crave:

In keeping us in hopes strange things to see

That never were, nor are, nor e’er shall be.

(Against Fruition, Complete)

The maid (and thereby hangs a tale),

For such a maid no Whitsun-ale

Could ever yet produce:

No grape, that’s kindly ripe, could be

So round, so plump, so soft as she,

Nor half so full of juice.

(A Ballad. Upon a Wedding)

Honest lover whatsoever,

If in all thy love there ever

Was one wav’ring thought, if thy flame

Were not still even, still the same:

Know this,

Thou lov’st amiss,

And to love true,

Thou must begin again, and love anew.

If when she appears i’ th’ room,

Thou dost not quake, and are struck dumb,

And in striving this to cover,

Dost not speak thy words twice over,

Know this,

Thou lov’st amiss,

And to love true,

Thou must begin again, and love anew.

If fondly thou dost not mistake ,

And all defects for graces take,

Persuad’st thyself that jests are broken,

When she hath little or nothing spoken,

Know this,

Thou lov’st amiss,

And to love true,

Thou must begin again, and love anew.

If when thou appearest to be within,

Thou lett’st not men ask and ask again;

And when thou answerest, if it be,

To whhat was ask’d thee, properly,

Know this,

Thou lov’st amiss,

And to love true,

Thou must begin again, and love anew.

If when thy stomach calls to eat,

Thou cutt’st not fingers ’stead of meat,

And with much gazing on her face

Dost not rise hungry from the place,

Know this,

Thou lov’st amiss,

And to love true,

Thou must begin again, and love anew.

If by this thou dost discover

That thou art not perfect lover,

And desiring to love true,

Thou dost begin to love anew:

Know this,

Thou lov’st amiss,

And to love true,

Thou must begin again, and love anew.

(Song, Complete)

And now my wand’ring thoughts are not confin’d

Unto one woman, but to womankind:

This for her shape I love, that for her face,

This for her gesture, or some other grace:

And where that none of all these things I find,

I choose her by the kernel, not the rind:

And so I hope since my first hope is gone,

To find in many what I lost in one;

And like to merchants after some great loss,

Trade by retail, that cannot do in gross.

(The Guiltless Inconstant)

Leaning her head upon my breast,

There on love’s bead she lay to rest;

My panting heart rock’d her asleep,

My heedful eyes the watch did keep;

Then love by me being harbour’d there,

In hope to be his harbinger,

Desire his rival kept the door;

But that, our mistress to entertain,

Some pretty fancy he would frame,

And represent it in a dream,

Of which myself should give the theme.

(Love’s Representation)

I know there are some fools that care

Not for the body, so the face be fair;

Some others, too, that in a female creature

Respect not beauty, but a comely feature;

And others, too, that for those parts in sight

Care not so much, so that the rest be right.

Each man his humour hath, and faith ’tis mine

To love a woman which I now define.

First I would have her wainscot-foot and hand

More wrinkled far than any plaited band,

That in those furrows, if I’d take the pains,

I might both sow and reap all sorts of grains:

Her nose I’d have a foot long, not above,

With pimples embroidered, for those I love;

And at the end of a comely pearl of snot,

Considering whether it should fall or not:

Provided, next, that half her teeth be out,

Nor do I care much if her pretty snout

Meet with her furrowed chin, and both together

Hem in her lips, as dry as good white leather.

One wall-eye she shall have; for that’s a sign

In other beasts the best, why not in mine?

Her neck I’ll have to be pure jet at least,

With yellow spots enamelled; and her breast,

Like a grasshopper’s wing, both thin and lean,

Not to be touched for dirt, unless swept clean.

As for her belly, ’tis no matter so

There be a belly, and a c— also.

Yet if you will, let it be something high,

And always let there be a timpany—

But soft! where am I now? here I should stride,

Lest I fall in, the place must be so wide,

And pass unto her thighs, which shall be just

Like to an ant’s that scraping in the dust.

Into her legs I’d have love’s issue fall,

And all her calf into a gouty small:

Her feet both thick and eagle-like displayed,

The symptoms of a comely, handsome maid.

As for her parts behind, I ask no more,

If they but answer those that are before,

I have my utmost wish; and having so,

Judge whether I am happy—yea or no.

(The Deformed Mistress, Complete)

To say she’s fair that’s fair, this is no pains:

He shows himself most poet, that most feigns:

(An Answer to Some Verses Made in His Praise)

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 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!

(Song)

I’ll give my fancy leave to range

Through everywhere to find out change;

The black, the brown, the fair shall be

But objects of variety;

I’ll court you all to serve my turn,

But with such flames as shall not burn.

Then hang me, ladies, at your door,

If e’er I dote upon you more.

(Verses)

Orsames: Why, there it is now! a greater epicure

Lives not on earth. My lord and I have been

In’s privy kitchen, seen his bills of fare.

Semanthe: and how, and how my lord?

Orsames: a mighty prince, and full of curiosity!

Hearts newly slain serv’d up entire,

And stuck with little arrows instead of cloves.

Philon: Sometimes a cheek plump’d up

With broth, with cream and claret mingled

For sauce, and round about the dish

Pomegranate kernels, strew’d on leaves of lillies!

(Aglaura, Act I)

Thersames: Those softer hours of pleasure and delight

That, like so many single hearts, should have

Adorn’d our threads of life, we will at once,

By love’s mysterious power and this night’s help,

Contract to one, and make but one rich draught

Of all.

(Aglaura, Act III)

Ariaspes: Dull, dull, he must not die so uselessly.

As when we wipe off filth from any place,

We throw away the thing that made it clean,

So this once done, he’s gone.

(Aglaura, Act IV)

Singing Boy: No, no, fair heretic, it needs must be

But an ill lore in me,

And worse for thee.

For were it in my power,

To love thee now this hour

More than I did the last:

I would then so fall,

I might not love at all.

Love that can flow, and can admit increase,

Admits as well an ebb, and may grow less.

True love is still the same; the torrid zones,

And those more frigid ones,

It must not know.

For love, grown cold or hot,

Is lust or friendship, not

The thing we have.

For that’s a flame would die,

Held down or up too high:

Then think I love more than I can express,

And would love more, could I but love thee less.

(Aglaura, Act IV)

Ziriff: ’T must be a busy and bold hand, that would

Unlink a chain the gods themselves have made:

(Aglaura, Act IV)