Page:Works of Sir John Suckling.djvu/49

Rh Love's a camelion, that lives on mere air, And surfeits when it comes to grosser fare: 'Tis petty jealousies, and little fears, Hopes join'd with doubts, and joys with April tears, That crowns our love with pleasures: these are gone When once we come to full fruition, Like waking in a morning, when all night Our fancy hath been fed with true delight. O, what a stroke 'twould be! sure I should die, Should I but hear my mistress once say, ay. That monster expectation feeds too high For any women e'er to satisfy; And no brave spirit ever car'd for that Which in down beds with ease he could come at. She's but an honest whore that yields, although She be as cold as ice, as pure as snow: He that enjoys her hath no more to say But 'Keep us fasting, if you'll have us pray.' Then, fairest mistress, hold the power you have, By still denying what we still do crave; In keeping us in hopes strange things to see That never were, nor are, nor e'er shall be.

thee, Dick, where I have been; Where I the rarest things have seen, O, things without compare! Such sights again cannot be found In any place on English ground, Be it at wake or fair.

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 folk as are not in our town, Vorty at least, in pairs.

Amongst the rest, one pest'lent fine (His beard no bigger though than thine) Walkt on before the rest: Our landlord looks like nothing to him: The King (God bless him!), 'twould undo him, Should he go still so drest.