Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets Part 46

_Shep._ The winged hours fly fast whilst we embrace; But when we want their help to meet, They move with leaden feet.

_Nym._ Then let us pinion time, and chase The day for ever from this place.

_Shep._ Hark! _Nym._ Ah me, stay! _Shep._ For ever _Nym._ No, arise; We must be gone. _Shep._ My nest of spice _Nym._ My soul. _Shep._ My paradise.

_Cho._ Neither could say farewell, but through their eyes Grief interrupted speech with tears supplies.

SONG.

Ask me no more where Jove bestows, When June is past, the fading rose; For in your beauties orient deep These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.

Ask me no more whither do stray The golden atoms of the day; For, in pure love, Heaven did prepare Those powders to enrich your hair.

Ask me no more whither doth haste The nightingale, when May is past; For in your sweet dividing throat She winters, and keeps warm her note.

Ask me no more, where those stars light, That downwards fall in dead of night; For in your eyes they sit, and there Fixed become, as in their sphere.

Ask me no more, if east or west The phoenix builds her spicy nest; For unto you at last she flies, And in your fragrant bosom dies.

SIR JOHN SUCKLING.

This witty baronet was born in 1608. He was the son of the Comptroller of the Household of Charles I. He was uncommonly precocious; at five is said to have spoken Latin, and at sixteen had entered into the service of Gustavus Adolphus, 'the lion of the North, and the bulwark of the Protestant faith.'

On his return to England, he was favoured by Charles, and became, in his turn, a most enthusiastic supporter of the Royal cause; writing plays for the amus.e.m.e.nt of the Court; and when the Civil War broke out, raising, at his own expense of 1200, a regiment for the King, which is said to have been distinguished only by its 'finery and cowardice.' When the Earl of Strafford came into trouble, Suckling, along with some other cavaliers, intrigued for his deliverance, was impeached by the House of Commons, and had to flee to France. Here an early death awaited him. His servant having robbed him, he drew on, in vehement haste, his boots, to pursue the defaulter, when a rusty nail, or, some say, the blade of a knife, which was concealed in one of them, pierced his heel. A mortification ensued, and he died, in 1641, at thirty-three years of age.

Suckling has written five plays, various poems, besides letters, speeches, and tracts, which have all been collected into one thin volume.

They are of various merit; none, in fact, being worthy of print, or at least of preservation, except one or two of his songs, and his 'Ballad upon a Wedding'. This last is an admirable expression of what were his princ.i.p.al qualities--_naivete_, sly humour, gay badinage, and a delicious vein of fancy, coming out occasionally by stealth, even as in his own exquisite lines about the bride,

'Her feet, beneath her petticoat, Like _little mice, stole in and out_, As if they fear'd the light.'

SONG.

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!

A BALLAD UPON A WEDDING.

1 I tell thee, d.i.c.k, 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.

2 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 folks as are not in our town, Vorty at least, in pairs.

3 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 (G.o.d bless him)'twould undo him, Should he go still so dress'd.

4 At Course-a-park, without all doubt, He should have first been taken out By all the maids i' the town: Though l.u.s.ty Roger there had been, Or little George upon the Green, Or Vincent of the Crown.

5 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.

6 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.

7 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.

8 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.

9 He would have kiss'd her once or twice, But she would not, she was so nice, She would not do 't in sight; And then she look'd as who should say.

I will do what I list to-day; And you shall do 't at night.

10 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 Katherine pear, The side that's next the sun.

11 Her lips were red, and one was thin, Compared to that was next her chin; Some bee had stung it newly.

But (d.i.c.k) her eyes so guard her face, I durst no more upon them gaze, Than on the sun in July.

12 Her mouth so small, when she does speak, Thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break, That they might pa.s.sage get; But she so handled still the matter, They came as good as ours, or better, And are not spent a whit.

13 If wishing should be any sin, The parson himself had guilty been, She look'd 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.

14 Pa.s.sion o'me! how I run on!

There's that that would be thought upon, I trow, beside the bride: The business of the kitchen's great, For it is fit that men should eat; Nor was it there denied.

15 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.

16 When all the meat was on the table, What man of knife, or teeth, was able To stay to be entreated?

And this the very reason was, Before the parson could say grace, The company were seated.

17 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 named another's health, Perhaps he made it hers by stealth, And who could help it, d.i.c.k?

18 O' the 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 pa.s.s, Whil'st every woman wish'd her place, And every man wish'd his.

19 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.

20 When in he came (d.i.c.k), there she lay, Like new-fall'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-bye, with all my heart.