Page:Works of Sir John Suckling.djvu/35

3

She every day her man does kill,15

And I as often die;
Neither her power, then, nor my will
Can questioned be,
What is the mystery?
Sure Beauty's empires, like to greater states,20
Have certain periods set, and hidden fates.

II

1

Of thee, kind boy, I ask no red and white,

To make up my delight;
No odd becoming graces,
Black eyes, or little know-not-whats in faces;
Make me but mad enough, give me good store5
Of love for her I court:
I ask no more,
'Tis love in love that makes the sport.

2

There's no such thing as that we beauty call,

It is mere cosenage all;10
For though some long ago
Lik'd certain colours mingled so and so,
That doth not tie me now from choosing new:
If I a fancy take
To black and blue,15
That fancy doth it beauty make.

3

'Tis not the meat, but 'tis the appetite

Makes eating a delight,
And if I like one dish
More than another, that a pheasant is;20
What in our watches, that in us is found;
So to the height and nick
We up be wound,
No matter by what hand or trick.