Page:Works of Sir John Suckling.djvu/43

Rh Who parts the object from the sense, Wisely cuts off intelligence. O, how quickly men must die, Should they stand all love's battery! Persinda's eyes great mischief do: So do, we know, the cannon too; But men are safe at distance still: Where they reach not, they cannot kill. Love is a fit, and soon is past; Ill diet only makes it last: Who is still looking, gazing ever, Drinks wine i' th' very height o' th' fever.

whining lover, what needs all These vows of life monastical, Despairs, retirements, jealousies, And subtile sealing up of eyes? Come, come, be wise; return again; A finger burnt's as great a pain; And the same physick, selfsame art Cures that, would cure a flaming heart, Wouldst thou, whilst yet the fire is in, But hold it to the fire again. If you, dear sir, the plague have got, What matter is 't whether or not They let you in the same house lie, Or carry you abroad to die? He, whom the plague or love once takes, Every room a pest-house makes. Absence were good if 't were but sense, That only holds th' intelligence. Pure love alone no hurt would do; But love is love, and magick too, Brings a mistress a thousand miles, And the sleight of looks beguiles, Makes her entertain thee there, And the same time your rival here; And (O, the devil!) that she should Say finer things now than she would; So nobly fancy doth supply What the dull sense lets fall and die.