Beauty's beauty; such a glory,
As beyond all fate, all story,
All arms, all arts,

All loves, all hearts,
Greater than those, or they,
Do, shall, and must obey.

COME

BRIDAL SONG.

YOMFORTS lasting, loves encreasing,
Like soft hours never ceasing;

Plenty's pleasure, peace complying,
Without jars, or tongues envỳing;
Hearts by holy union wedded,
More than theirs by custom bedded;
Fruitful issues; life so graced,
Not by age to be defaced;
Budding as the year ensu❜th,
Every spring another youth:
All what thought can add beside,
Crown this Bridegroom and this Bride!

LOVE IS EVER DYING.

H, no more, no more, too late

Sighs are spent; the burning tapers Of a life as chaste as fate,

Pure as are unwritten papers,

Are burned out: no heat, no light
Now remains; 'tis ever night.
Love is dead; let lover's eyes,
Locked in endless dreams,
The extremes of all extremes,
Ope no more, for now Love dies.
Now love dies,-implying

Love's martyrs must be ever, ever dying.

A DIRGE.

GLORIES, pleasures, pomps, delights and ease,

Can but please

The outward senses, when the mind
Is or untroubled, or by peace refined.
Crowns may flourish and decay,
Beauties shine, but fade away.
Youth may revel, yet it must
Lie down in a bed of dust.
Earthly honours flow and waste,
Time alone doth change and last.
Sorrows mingled with contents, prepare
Rest for care;

Love only reigns in death; though art
Can find no comfort for a broken heart.

THE LADY'S TRIAL. 1638.

LOSE NOT OPPORTUNITY.

PLEASURES, beauty, youth attend ye,
Whilst the spring of nature lasteth;
Love and melting thoughts befriend ye,
Use the time, ere winter hasteth.
Active blood, and free delight,
Place and privacy invite.

Do, do! be kind as fair,

Lose not opportunity for air.

She is cruel that denies it,

Bounty best appears in granting;
Stealth of sport as soon supplies it,
Whilst the dues of love are wanting.
Here's the sweet exchange of bliss,
When each whisper proves a kiss.
In the game are felt no pains,
For in all the lover gains.

SIR JOHN SUCKLING.

1608-1642.

[THE animal spirits and gallantry of Suckling are charmingly sustained in these songs. Nothing in verse can be more airy or sparkling. They have in them the brightest and finest elements of youth-manliness and gaiety, wit, grace, and refinement. In this class of light and sprightly lyrics, of which he may be considered the founder, he is unrivalled. The comparison between him and Waller is infinitely in favour of Suckling, whose ease and vivacity offer a striking contrast to the elaborate finish and careful filigree of Waller. He writes, also, more like a man of blood and high breeding. His luxurious taste and voluptuousness are native to him; while in Waller there is always the effort of art, and the consciousness of the fine gentleman.]

WHY so pale and wan, fond lover?
Prithee why so pale?

Will, when looking well can't move her,
Looking ill prevail?

Prithee why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
Prithee why so mute?

Will, when speaking well can't win her,
Saying nothing do't?

Prithee why so mute?

Quit, quit, for shame; this will not move,
This cannot take her;

If of herself she will not love,
Nothing can make her:
The devil take her.

TRUE LOVE.

No, no, fair heretic, it needs must be

But an ill love in me,

And worse for thee;

For were it in my power
To love thee now this hour
More than I did the last;
"Twould 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.

There is no business above it:
It warms the cold brain,

Makes us speak in high strain;
He's a fool that does not approve it.

The Macedon youth

Left behind him this truth,

That nothing is done with much thinking;
He drunk, and he fought,

Till he had what he sought,
The world was his own by good drinking.

THE GOBLINS. 1646.*

A CATCH.

FILL it up, fill it up to the brink,
When the poets cry clink,

And the pockets chink,

Then 'tis a merry world.

To the best, to the best, have at her,
And the deuce take the woman-hater:-
The prince of darkness is a gentleman,
Mahu, Mahu is his name.

THE SAD ONE.

FICKLE AND FALSE.

HAST thou seen the down in the air,

When wanton blasts have tossed it?

Or the ship on the sea,

When ruder winds have crossed it?

Hast thou marked the crocodile's weeping,

Or the fox's sleeping?

Or hast thou viewed the peacock in his pride,

Or the dove by his bride,

When he courts for his lechery?

Oh! so fickle, oh! so vain, oh! so false, so false is she!