Sir John Suckling

DIALOGUE T.C. J.S. Thom. Didst thou not find the place inspired, And flowers, as if they had desired No other sun, start from their beds, And for a sight steal out their heads? Heardst thou not music when she talked? And didst not find that as she walked She threw rare perfumes all about, Such as bean-blossoms newly out, Or chafèd spices give?— J.S. I must confess those perfumes, Tom, I did not smell; nor found that from Her passing by ought sprung up new. The flowers had all their birth from you; For I passed o’er the self-same walk And did not find one single stalk Of anything that was to bring This unknown after-after-spring. Thom. Dull and insensible, couldst see A thing so near a deity Move up and down, and feel no change? J.S. None, and so great, were alike strange; I had my thoughts, but not your way. All are not born, sir, to the bay. Alas! Tom, I am flesh and blood, And was consulting how I could In spite of masks and hoods descry The parts denied unto the eye. I was undoing all she wore, And had she walked but one turn more, Eve in her first state had not been More naked or more plainly seen. Thom. ’Twas well for thee she left the place; There is great danger in that face. But hadst thou viewed her leg and thigh, And upon that discovery Searched after parts that are more dear (As fancy seldom stops so near), No time or age had ever seen So lost a thing as thou hadst been.

One of her hands one of her cheeks lay under, Cosening the pillow of a lawful kiss, Which therefore swell’d, and seem’d to part asunder, As angry to be robb’d of such a bliss! The one look’d pale and for revenge did long, While t’other blush’d, ’cause it had done the wrong. Out of the bed the other fair hand was On a green satin quilt, whose perfect white Look’d like a daisy in a field of grass, And show’d like unmelt snow unto the sight; There lay this pretty perdue, safe to keep The rest o’ th’ body that lay fast asleep. Her eyes (and therefore it was night), close laid Strove to imprison beauty till the morn: But yet the doors were of such fine stuff made, That it broke through, and show’d itself in scorn, Throwing a kind of light about the place, Which turn’d to smiles still, as’t came near her face. Her beams, which some dull men call’d hair, divided, Part with her cheeks, part with her lips did sport. But these, as rude, her breath put by still; some Wiselier downwards sought, but falling short, Curled back in rings, and seemed to turn again To bite the part so unkindly held them in.

Of thee, kind boy, I ask no red and white, To make up my delight; No odd becoming graces, Black eyes, or little know-not-whats in faces; Make me but mad enough, give me good store Of love for her I count; I ask no more, ’Tis love in love that makes the sport. There’s no such thing as that we beauty call, It is mere cozenage all; For though some, long ago, Liked certain colors mingled so and so, That doth not tie me now from choosing new; If I a fancy take To black and blue, That fancy doth it beauty make. ’Tis not the meat, but ’tis the appetite Makes eating a delight; And if I like one dish More than another, that a pheasant is; What in our watches, that in us is found: So to the height and nick We up be wound, No matter by what hand or trick.

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 me Than if it could not charm, or I not see. And yet the face continues good, And I have still desires, Am still the selfsame flesh and blood, As apt to melt And suffer from those fires; Oh some kind pow’r unriddle where it lies, Whether my heart be faulty, or her eyes? She ev’ry day her man does kill, And I as often die; Neither her power then, nor my will Can question’d be. What is the mystery? Sure beauty’s empires, like to greater states, Have certain periods set, and hidden fates.

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.

Out upon it, I have lov’d Three whole days together; And am like to love three more, If it prove fair 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 dozen in her place.

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? Who tell you of a thousand deaths a day, Like the old poets feign And tell the pain They met, but in the common way? Or do you think ’t too soon to yield, And quit the field? Nor is that right, they yield that first entreat; Once one may crave for love, But more would prove This heart too little, that too great. Oh that I were all soul, that I might prove For you as fit a love As you are for an angel; for I know, None but pure spirits are fit loves for you. You are all ethereal; there’s in you no dross, Nor any part that’s gross. Your coarsest part is like a curious lawn, The vestal relics for a covering drawn. Your other parts, part of the purest fire That e’er Heav’n did inspire, Makes every thought that is refin’d by it A quintessence of goodness and of wit. Thus have your raptures reach’d to that degree In love’s philosophy, That you can figure to yourself a fire Void of all heat, a love without desire. Nor in divinity do you go less; You think, and you profess, That souls may have a plenitude of joy, Although their bodies meet not to employ. But I must needs confess, I do not find The motions of my mind So purified as yet, but at the best My body claims in them an interest. I hold that perfect joy makes all our parts As joyful as our hearts. Our senses tell us, if we please not them, Our love is but a dotage or a dream. How shall we then agree? you may descend, But will not, to my end. I fain would tune my fancy to your key, But cannot reach to that obstructed way. There rests but this, that whilst we sorrow here, Our bodies may draw near; And, when no more their joys they can extend, Then let our souls begin where they did end.

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, Though thou dost thine, employ’st thy pow’r and art. For through long custom it has known The little secrets, and is grown Sullen and wise, will have its will, And like old hawks pursues that still That makes least sport, flies only where’t can kill. Some youth that has not made his story, Will think perchance the pain’s the glory, And mannerly sit out love’s feast; I shall be carving of the best, Rudely call for the last course ’fore the rest. And oh when once that course is past, How short a time the feast doth last; Men rise away and scarce say grace, Or civilly once thank the face That did invite, but seek another place.

I tell thee, Dick, where I have been, Where I the rarest things have seen; Oh, 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 know’st) do sell our hay, There is a house with stairs; And there did I see coming down Such folk as are not in our town, Vorty, at least, in pairs. Amongst the rest, one pest’lent fine (His beard no bigger though than thine) 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. At Course-a-Park, without all doubt, He should have first been taken out By all the maids i’th’ town: Though lusty Roger there had been, Or little George upon the Green, Or Vincent of the Crown. But wot you what? the youth was going To make an end of all his wooing; The parson for him stay’d: 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 plump, so soft 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 oh! she dances such a way No sun upon an Easter-day Is half so fine a sight. He would have kissed her once or twice, But she would not, she was nice, She would not do’t in sight, And then she looked as who should say I will do what I list to day; And you shall do’t at night. 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 Catherine 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’dst 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. If wishing should be any sin, The Parson himself had guilty been; (She looked that day so purely,) And did the youth so oft the feat At night, as some did in conceit, It would have spoil’d him, surely. 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 was seated. Now hats fly off, and youths carouse, Healths first go round, and then the house, The bride’s came thick and thick; And when ’twas nam’d 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 sev’ral ways the time did pass, Whilst ev’ry woman wish’d her place, And ev’ry 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. When in he came (Dick) there she lay Like new-fal’n snow melting away, (’Twas time I trow to part) Kisses were now the only stay, Which soon she gave, as who would say, Good Boy! with all my heart. But just as heav’ns would have to cross it, In came the Bridemaids with the Posset: The Bridegroom eat in spite; For had he left the Women to’t It would have cost two hours to do’t, Which were too much that night. At length the candles out and out, All that they had not done, they do’t: What that is, who can tell? But I believe it was no more Then thou and I have done before With Bridget, and with Nell.