Page:Works of Sir John Suckling.djvu/94

74 If she but a new object find, Then straight she's of another mind. Then hang me, Ladies, at your door, If e'er I doat upon you more!

Yet still I love the fairsome (why? For nothing but to please my eye); And so the fat and soft-skinn'd dame I'll flatter to appease my flame: For she that's musical I'll long, When I am sad, to sing a song. Then hang me, Ladies, at your door, If e'er I doat upon you more!

I'll give my fancy leave to range Through everywhere to find out change: The black, the brown, the fair shall be But objects of variety. I'll court you all to serve my turn, But with such flames as shall not burn. Then hang me, Ladies, at your door, If e'er I doat upon you more!

thee, fellow, whoe'er thou be, That made this fine sing-song of me, Thou art a rhyming sot: These very lines do thee bewray; This barren wit makes all men say, 'Twas some rebellious Scot.

But it's no wonder that you sing Such songs of me who am no king, When every Blue Cap swears He'll not obey King James his ba'rn, That hugs a bishop under his arm, And hangs them in his ears.

Had I been of your covenant, You would have call'd me John of Gaunt, And given me great renown; But, now I am John for the King, You say I am but a poor Suckling, And thus you cry me down.