Page:Works of Sir John Suckling.djvu/29

Rh when Don Cupid's dart Doth wound a heart, We hide our grief And shun relief, The smart increaseth on that score; For wounds unsearcht but rankle more.

Then if we whine, look pale, And tell our tale, Men are in pain For us again; So, neither speaking doth become The lover's state, nor being dumb.

When this I do descry, Then thus think I: Love is the fart Of every heart; It pains a man when 'tis kept close, And others doth offend when 'tis let loose.

was held the other day, And Apollo himself was at it, they say, The laurel that had been so long reserv'd, Was now to be given to him best deserv'd. And Therefore the wits of the town came thither, 'Twas strange to see how they flocked together, Each strongly confident of his own way, Thought to gain the laurel away that day.

There was Selden, and he sate hard by the chair; Wenman not far off, which was very fair; Sands with Townsend, for they kept no order; Digby and Shillingsworth a little further. And There was Lucan's translator too, and he That makes God speak so big in 's poetry; Selwin and Waller, and Bartlets both the brothers; Jack Vaughan and Porter, and divers others.