Page:Works of Sir John Suckling.djvu/85

Rh A looking-glass, will 't please you, madam, buy? A rare one 'tis indeed, for in it I Can shew what all the world besides can't do, A face like to your own, so fair, so true.

For you a girdle, madam; but I doubt me Nature hath order'd there's no waist about ye: Pray, therefore, be but pleas'd to search my pack, There's no ware that I have that you shall lack.

You, ladies, want you pins? if that you do, I have those will enter, and that stiffly too: It's time you choose, in troth; you will bemoan Too late your tarrying, when my pack's once gone.

As for you, ladies, there are those behind Whose ware perchance may better take your mind: One cannot please ye all; the pedlar will draw back, And wish against himself that you may have the knack.

ancient poets and their learned rimes We still admire in these our later times, And celebrate their fames. Thus, though they die, Their names can never taste mortality: Blind Homer's muse and Virgil's stately verse, While any live, shall never need a herse. Since then to these such praise was justly due For what they did, what shall be said to you? These had their helps: they writ of gods and kings, Of temples, battles, and such gallant things; But you of nothing: how could you have writ, Had you but chose a subject to your wit? To praise Achilles, or the Trojan crew, Shewed little art, for praise was but their due. To say she's fair that's fair, this is no pains: He shows himself most poet, that most feigns.