Secure repose, and never dream
Of the quite forsaken stream:
Let him to the wide ocean haste,
There lose his colour, name, and taste;
Thou shalt save all, and, safe from him,
Within these arms for ever swim.

SONG.

If the quick spirits in your eye
Now languish, and anon must die;
If every sweet, and every grace,
Must fly from that forsaken face:

Then, Celia, let us reap our joys,

Ere time such goodly fruit destroys.
Or, if that golden fleece must grow
For ever, free from aged snow;
If those bright suns must know no shade,
Nor your fresh beauties ever fade;
Then fear not, Celia, to bestow
What still being gather'd still must grow.

Thus, either Time his sickle brings
In vain, or else in vain his wings.

A PASTORAL DIALOGUE.

SHEPHERD, NYMPH, CHORUS.

Shep. This mossy bank they press'd. Nym. That aged oak

Did canopy the happy pair

All night from the damp air.
Cho. Here let us sit, and sing the words they spoke,

Till the day-breaking their embraces broke.
Shep. See, love, the blushes of the morn appear:

And now she hangs her pearly store (Robb’d from the eastern shore)

273

VOL. I.

I'th' cowslip's bell and rose's ear:
Sweet, I must stay no longer here.

Nym. Those streaks of doubtful light usher not day,

But show my sun must set; no morn

Shall shine till thou return:
The yellow planets, and the gray
Dawn, shall attend thee on thy way.

Shep. If thine eyes gild my paths, they may forbear

Their useless shine. Nym. My tears will quite

Extinguish their faint light.
Shep. Those drops will make their beams more clear,
Love's flames will shine in every tear.

Cho. They kiss'd, and wept; and from their lips and eyes,

, In a mix'd dew of briny sweet,

Their joys and sorrows meet;
But she cries out. Nym. Shepherd, arise,
The sun betrays us else to spies.

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.'

6

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 amusement 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 principal qualities, naïveté, 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.'

a

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, 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.

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 (God 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: