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So when love's yoke is on,

It must not gall,

Or fret at all
With hard oppression.

But it must play

Still either way,
And be, too, such a yoke

As not too wide,

To overslide ;
Or be so straight to choke.

So we, who bear

This team, must rear
Ourselves to such a height

As that the stay

Of either may
Create the burthen light.

And as this round

Is no where found
To flaw, or else to sever;

So let our love

As endless prove,
And pure as gold for ever.

Robert Herrick.


I PRÄYTHEE send me back my heart,

Since I can not have thine;
For if from yours you will not part,

Why then shouldst thou have mine?
Yet now I think on't, let it lie;

To find it, were in vain :
For thou'st a thief in either eye

Would steal it back again.

Why should two hearts in one breast lie,

And yet not lodge together ? O love ! where is thy sympathy,

If thus our breasts you sever ?

But love is such a mystery

I cannot find it out;
For when I think I'm best resolved,

I then am in most doubt.

Then farewell care, and farewell woe,

I will no longer pine;
For I'll believe I have her heart,
As much as she has mine.

Sir John Suckling.



TELL me not, Sweet, I am unkind,

That from the nunnery
Of your chaste breast and quiet mind,

To war and arms I fly.
True, a new mistress now I chase,

The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith embrace

A sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such

As you too shall adore;
I could not love thee, Dear, so much,
Loved I not Honour more!

Richard Lovelace.


I TELL thee, Dick, where I have been,
Where I the rarest things have seen ;

O things without compare !
Such sights again cannot be found
In any place on English ground,

Be it at wake or fair.
At Charing Cross, hard by the way
Where we (thou knowst) do sell our hay

There is a house with stairs; And there did I see coming down Such folks as are not in our town,

Forty at least, in pairs. Amongst the rest, one pest'lent fine, (His beard no bigger, tho', than mine)

Walk'd on before the rest;
Our landlord looks like nothing to him:
The king, God bless him ! 'twould undo him,

Should he go still so drest.
But wot you what ? The youth was going
To make an end of all his wooing;

The parson for him staid:
Yet by his leave, for all his haste,
He did not so much wish all past,

Perchance as did the maid.
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 soft, so plump as she

Nor half so full of juice.
Her finger was so small, the ring
Would not stay on which they did bring;

It was too wide a peck:
And to say truth (for out it must)
It look'd like the great collar (just)

About our young colt's neck.
Her feet beneath her petticoat,
Like little mice, stole in and out,

As if they fear'd the light:
But O! she dances such a way!
No sun upon an Easter-day

Is half so fine a sight.
Her cheeks so rare a white was on,
No daisy makes comparison ;

Who sees them is undone;
For streaks of red were mingled there,
Such as are on a Cath'rine pear,

The side that's next the sun.

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 Fohn 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.


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