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Her lips were red; and one was thin,
Compar'd to that was next her chin,

Some bee had stung it newly;
But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face,
I durst no more upon them gaze,

Than on the sun in July.

Her mouth so small, when she does speak,
Thou’d'st swear her teeth her words did break

That they might passage get;
But she so handled still the matter,
They came as good as ours, or better,

And are not spent a whit.

Passion o' me ! how I run on!
There's that that would be thought upon

I trow, besides the bride:
The business of the kitchen's great,
For it is fit that men should eat;

Nor was it there denied.

Just in the nick the cook knock'd thrice,
And all the waiters in a trice

His summons did obey;
Each serving-man, with dish in hand,
March'd boldly up, like our train'd-band,

Presented, and away.
When all the meat was on the table,
What man of knife, or teeth, was able

To stay to be intreated ?
And this the very reason was,
Before the parson could say grace,

The company were seated.
Now hats fly off, and youth carouse;
Healths first go round, and then the house,

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 sit again, and sigh, and glance;

Then dance again, and kiss.
Thus several ways the time did pass,
Till every woman wish'd her place,

And every man wish'd his.

By this time all were stol'n aside
To counsel and undress the bride;

But that he must not know:
But yet 'twas thought he guess'd her mind,
And did not mean to stay behind
Above an hour or so.

Sir John Suckling


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!

Alexander Pope.



A Fragment.

THERE's one request I make to Him

Who sits the clouds above :
That I were fairly out of debt,

As I am out of love.

Then for to dance, to drink, and sing,

I should be very willing;
I should not owe one lass a kiss,

Nor any rogue one shilling.

'Tis only being in love, or debt,

That robs us of our rest,
And he that is quite out of both,

Of all the world is blest.

He sees the golden age, wherein

All things were free and common;
He eats, he drinks, he takes his rest-
And fears nor man nor woman.

Sir John Suckling:




If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
Then pretty pleasures might me move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.

Time drives the flocks from field to fold
When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold,
And Philomel becometh dumb;
The rest complain of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields;
A honey'd tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.
Thy gown, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies;
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
Thy belt of straw, and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps, and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move,
To come to thee, and be thy love.
But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date, and age no need;
Then these delights my mind might move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.

Sir Walter Raleigh.

Out upon it, I have loved

Three whole days together;
And am like to love three more, -

If it prove fine weather.
Time shall moult away his wings, .

Ere he shall discover
In the whole wide world again

Such a constant lover.
But the spite on't is, no praise

Is due at all to me;
Love with me had made no stays

Had it any been but she.
Had it any been but she,

And that very face,
There had been at least, ere this,
A dozen in her place!

Sir John Suckling.




A Fragment.

CHLOE, why wish you that your years

Would backwards run, till they meet mine,
That perfect likeness, which endears

Things unto things, might us combine?
Our ages so in date agree,
That twins do differ more than we.

There are two births: the one when light

First strikes the new awakened sense;
The other, when two souls unite,

And we must count our life from thence :
When you loved me, and I loved you,
Then both of us were born anew.

Love then to us did new souls give,

And in those souls did plant new powers;
Since when another life we live,

The breath we breathe is his, not ours;
Love makes those young, whom age doth chill,
And whom he finds young, keeps young still.

And now since you and I are such,

Tell me what's yours and what is mine?
Our eyes, our ears, our taste, smell, touch,

Do, like our souls, in one combine;
So by this, I as well may be
Too old for you, as you for me.

William Cartwright.

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