Page:Works of Sir John Suckling.djvu/73

Rh And there he brings me, where his ambush lay, Secure and careless, to a stranger land; And, never warning me, which was foul play, Does make me close by all this beauty stand: Where, first struck dead, I did at last recover, To know that I might only live to love her.

So I'll be sworn I do, and do confess The blind lad's power, whilst he inhabits there; But I'll be even with him, ne'ertheless, If e'er I chance to meet with him elsewhere. If other eyes invite the boy to tarry, I'll fly to hers as to a sanctuary.

your heart cannot so guilty be, That you should wear those spots for vanity; Or, as your beauty's trophies, put on one For every murther which your eyes have done: No, they're your mourning-weeds for hearts forlorn, Which, though you must not love, you could not scorn; To whom since cruel honour doth deny Those joys could only cure their misery, Yet you this noble way to grace them found, Whilst thus your grief their martyrdom hath crown'd, Of which take heed you prove not prodigal; For, if to every common funeral By your eyes martyr'd, such grace were allow'd, Your face would wear not patches, but a cloud.

you refuse me once and think again, I will complain. You are deceiv'd, love is no work of art; It must be got and born, Not made and worn, By every one that hath a heart.