John Suckling

Of thee, kind boy,
I ask no red and white,
To make up my delight;
No odd becoming graces,

I will not love one minute more,
I swear
No, not a minute
Not a sigh or

If you refuse me once, and think again, I will complain
You are deceiv'd, love is no work of art, It must be got and born, Not made and worn, By every one that hath a heart
Or do you think they more than once can die, Whom you deny
...

When, dearest I but think of thee,
Methinks all things that lovely be   Are present, and my soul delighted:
For beauties that from worth
Are like the grace of deities,   Still present with us, tho’ unsighted

I prithee spare me gentle boy,
Press me no more for that slight toy,
That foolish trifle of an heart;
I swear it will not do its part,

HY 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

No, no, fair heretic, it needs must
But an ill love in me,
And worse for thee
For were it in my

That none beguiled be by Time's quick flowing,
Lovers have in their hearts a clock still going;
For, though Time be nimble, his
Are

I am a man of war and might,
And know thus much, that I can fight,
Whether I am in the wrong or right,
Devoutly

O
for some honest lover’s ghost,   Some kind unbodied post     Sent from the shades below
I strangely long to
Whether the noble chaplets

Out upon it,
I have
Three whole days together;
And am like to love three more,

Dost see how unregarded now        That piece of beauty passes
There was a time when I did vow        To that alone;    But mark the fate of faces;
The red and white works now no more on
Than if it could not charm, or I not see

'Tis now, since I sat down
That foolish fort, a heart,(Time strangely spent) a year and more,
And still I did my part:
Made my approaches, from her