The Works of Sir John Suckling in prose and verse/Sonnets

by John Suckling

SONNETS

I

1

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;5
The red and white works now no more on me
Than if it could not charm, or I not see.

2

And yet the face continues good,

⁠And I have still desires,
Am still the selfsame flesh and blood,10
⁠As apt to melt
⁠And suffer from those fires;
O! some kind power unriddle where it lies,
Whether my heart be faulty, or her eyes?

3

She every day her man does kill,15

⁠And I as often die;
Neither her power, then, nor my will
⁠Can questioned be,
⁠What is the mystery?
Sure Beauty's empires, like to greater states,20
Have certain periods set, and hidden fates.

II

1

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 store5
Of love for her I court:
⁠I ask no more,
'Tis love in love that makes the sport.

2

There's no such thing as that we beauty call,

⁠It is mere cosenage all;10
⁠For though some long ago
Lik'd certain colours mingled so and so,
That doth not tie me now from choosing new:
If I a fancy take
⁠To black and blue,15
That fancy doth it beauty make.

3

'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;20
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.

III

1

O! for some honest lover's ghost,

⁠Some kind unbodied post
⁠Sent from the shades below!
⁠I strangely long to know,
Whether the nobler chaplets wear,5
Those that their mistress' scorn did bear,
⁠Or those that were us'd kindly.

2

For whatsoe'er they tell us here

⁠To make those sufferings dear,
⁠'Twill there I fear be found,10
⁠That to the being crown'd
T' have loved alone will not suffice,
Unless we also have been wise,
⁠And have our loves enjoy'd.

3

What posture can we think him in,15

⁠That here unlov'd again
⁠Departs, and 's thither gone
⁠Where each sits by his own?
Or how can that elysium be,
Where I my mistress still must see20
⁠Circled in others' arms?

4

For there the judges all are just,

⁠And Sophonisba must
⁠Be his whom she held dear,
⁠Not his who lov'd her here:25
The sweet Philoclea, since she died,
Lies by her Pirocles his side,
⁠Not by Amphialus.

5

Some bays, perchance, or myrtle bough,

⁠For difference crowns the brow30
⁠Of those kind souls that were
⁠The noble martyrs here;
And if that be the only odds
(As who can tell?) ye kinder gods,
⁠Give me the woman here.35