Page:Works of Sir John Suckling.djvu/35

Rh She every day her man does kill, 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, Have certain periods set, and hidden fates.

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

There's no such thing as that we beauty call, It is mere cosenage all; 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, That fancy doth it beauty make.

'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; 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.