Volume Ii Part 80 (2/2)

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!

John Suckling [1609-1642]

WISHES TO HIS SUPPOSED MISTRESS

Whoe'er she be, That not impossible She That shall command my heart and me:

Where'er she lie, Locked up from mortal eye In shady leaves of destiny:

Till that ripe birth Of studied Fate stand forth, And teach her fair steps tread our earth:

Till that divine Idea take a shrine Of crystal flesh, through which to s.h.i.+ne;

Meet you her, my Wishes, Bespeak her to my blisses, And be ye called my absent kisses.

I wish her Beauty That owes not all its duty To gaudy tire, or glistering shoe-tie:

Something more than Taffeta or tissue can, Or rampant feather, or rich fan.

More than the spoil Of shop, or silkworm's toil, Or a bought blush, or a set smile.

A Face that's best By its own beauty dressed, And can alone commend the rest

A Face, made up Out of no other shop Than what Nature's white hand sets ope.

A Cheek, where youth And blood, with pen of truth, Write what the reader sweetly ru'th.

A Cheek, where grows More than a morning rose, Which to no box its being owes.

Lips, where all day A lover's kiss may play, Yet carry nothing thence away.

Looks, that oppress Their richest tires, but dress And clothe their simplest nakedness.

Eyes, that displace The neighbor diamond, and outface That suns.h.i.+ne by their own sweet grace.

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