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Her lips were red; and one was thin,
Some bee had stung it newly;
Than on the sun in July.
Her mouth so small, when she does speak,
That they might passage get;
And are not spent a whit.
Passion o' me ! how I run on!
I trow, besides the bride:
Nor was it there denied.
Just in the nick the cook knock'd thrice,
His summons did obey;
Presented, and away.
To stay to be intreated ?
The company were seated.
The bride's come thick and thick; And when 'twas named another's health, Perhaps he made it hers by stealth,
And who could help it, Dick ?
O'th' sudden up they rise and dance;
Then dance again, and kiss.
And every man wish'd his.
By this time all were stol'n aside
But that he must not know:
Sir John Suckling
XLVII. TO MR. THOMAS SOUTHERNE,
On his Birthday, 1742. RESIGN'D to live, prepared to die, With not one sin,--but poetry, This day Tom's fair account has run (Without a blot) to eighty-one. Kind Boyle, before his poet, lays A table, with a cloth of bays; And Ireland, mother of sweet singers, Presents her harp still to his fingers. The feast, his towering genius marks In yonder wild goose and the larks! The mushrooms show his wit was sudden! And for his judgment, lo a pudden! Roast beef, though old, proclaims him stout, And grace, although a bard, devout. May Tom, whom Heaven sent down to raise The price of prologues and of plays, Be every birthday more a winner, Digest his thirty-thousandth dinner; Walk to his grave without reproach, And scorn a rascal and a coach!
LOVE AND DEBT.
THERE's one request I make to Him
Who sits the clouds above :
As I am out of love.
Then for to dance, to drink, and sing,
I should be very willing;
Nor any rogue one shilling.
'Tis only being in love, or debt,
That robs us of our rest,
Of all the world is blest.
He sees the golden age, wherein
All things were free and common;
Sir John Suckling:
THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE PASSIONATE
If all the world and love were young,
Time drives the flocks from field to fold
The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
Sir Walter Raleigh.
Out upon it, I have loved
Three whole days together;
If it prove fine weather.
Ere he shall discover
Such a constant lover.
Is due at all to me;
Had it any been but she.
And that very face,
Sir John Suckling.
TO CHLOE, WHO WISHED HERSELF YOUNG
ENOUGH FOR ME.
CHLOE, why wish you that your years
Would backwards run, till they meet mine,
Things unto things, might us combine?
There are two births: the one when light
First strikes the new awakened sense;
And we must count our life from thence :
Love then to us did new souls give,
And in those souls did plant new powers;
The breath we breathe is his, not ours;
And now since you and I are such,
Tell me what's yours and what is mine?
Do, like our souls, in one combine;