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Best Famous Sir John Suckling Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Sir John Suckling poems. This is a select list of the best famous Sir John Suckling poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Sir John Suckling poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Sir John Suckling poems.

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Written by Sir John Suckling |

When Dearest I But Think of Thee

 When, dearest I but think of thee,
Methinks all things that lovely be
Are present, and my soul delighted:
For beauties that from worth arise
Are like the grace of deities,
Still present with us, tho’ unsighted.
Thus while I sit and sigh the day With all his borrow’d lights away, Till night’s black wings do overtake me, Thinking on thee, thy beauties then, As sudden lights do sleepy men, So they by their bright rays awake me.
Thus absence dies, and dying proves No absence can subsist with loves That do partake of fair perfection: Since in the darkest night they may By love’s quick motion find a way To see each other by reflection.
The waving sea can with each flood Bathe some high promont that hath stood Far from the main up in the river: O think not then but love can do As much! for that’s an ocean too, Which flows not every day, but ever!

Written by Sir John Suckling |

Love Turned to Hatred

 I will not love one minute more, I swear!
No, not a minute! Not a sigh or tear
Thou gett'st from me, or one kind look again,
Though thou shouldst court me to 't, and wouldst begin.
I will not think of thee but as men do Of debts and sins; and then I'll curse thee too.
For thy sake woman shall be now to me Less welcome than at midnight ghosts shall be.
I'll hate so perfectly that it shall be Treason to love that man that loves a she.
Nay, I will hate the very good, I swear, That's in thy sex, because it doth lie there, - Their very virtue, grace, discourse, and wit, And all for thee! What, wilt thou love me yet?

Written by Sir John Suckling |

I prithee send me back my heart

 I prithee send me back my heart,
Since I cannot have thine;
For if from yours you will not part,
Why, then, shouldst thou have mine?

Yet now I think on't, let it lie,
To find it were in vain;
For thou hast a thief in either eye
Would steal it back again.
Why should two hearts in one breast lie, And yet not lodge together? O Love! where is thy sympathy, If thus our breasts thou sever? But love is such a mystery, I cannot find it out; For when I think I'm best resolved, I then am in most doubt.
Then farewell care, and farewell woe; I will no longer pine; For I'll believe I have her heart, As much as she hath mine.

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Written by Sir John Suckling |

A Supplement of an Imperfect Copy of Verses of Mr. William

 One of her hands one of her cheeks lay under,
Cosening the pillow of a lawful kiss,
Which therefore swell'd, and seem'd to part asunder,
As angry to be robb'd of such a bliss!
The one look'd pale and for revenge did long,
While t'other blush'd, 'cause it had done the wrong.
Out of the bed the other fair hand was On a green satin quilt, whose perfect white Look'd like a daisy in a field of grass, And show'd like unmelt snow unto the sight; There lay this pretty perdue, safe to keep The rest o' th' body that lay fast asleep.
Her eyes (and therefore it was night), close laid Strove to imprison beauty till the morn: But yet the doors were of such fine stuff made, That it broke through, and show'd itself in scorn, Throwing a kind of light about the place, Which turn'd to smiles still, as't came near her face.
Her beams, which some dull men call'd hair, divided, Part with her cheeks, part with her lips did sport.
But these, as rude, her breath put by still; some Wiselier downwards sought, but falling short, Curled back in rings, and seemed to turn again To bite the part so unkindly held them in.

Written by Sir John Suckling |

A Doubt of Martyrdom

 O for some honest lover’s ghost,
Some kind unbodied post
Sent from the shades below!
I strangely long to know
Whether the noble chaplets wear
Those that their mistress’ scorn did bear
Or those that were used kindly.
For whatsoe’er they tell us here To make those sufferings dear, ’Twill there, I fear, be found That to the being crown’d T’ have loved alone will not suffice, Unless we also have been wise And have our loves enjoy’d.
What posture can we think him in That, here unloved, again Departs, and ’s thither gone Where each sits by his own? Or how can that Elysium be Where I my mistress still must see Circled in other’s arms? For there the judges all are just, And Sophonisba must Be his whom she held dear, Not his who loved her here.
The sweet Philoclea, since she died, Lies by her Pirocles his side, Not by Amphialus.
Some bays, perchance, or myrtle bough For difference crowns the brow Of those kind souls that were The noble martyrs here: And if that be the only odds (As who can tell?), ye kinder gods, Give me the woman here!

Written by Sir John Suckling |

The Constant Lover

 Out upon it, I have lov'd
Three whole days together;
And am like to love three more,
If it prove fair weather.
Time shall molt away his wings Ere he shall discover In such whole wide world again Such a constant lover.
But the spite on't is, no praise Is due at all to me: Love with me had made no stays Had it any been but she.
Had it any been but she And that very face, There had been at least ere this A dozen dozen in her place.

Written by Sir John Suckling |

Out upon it I have lovd

 Out upon it, I have lov'd
Three whole days together;
And am like to love three more,
If it prove fair weather.
Time shall moult away his wings, Ere he shall discover In the whole wide world again Such a constant lover.
But the spite on't is, no praise Is due at all to me; Love with me had made no stays, Had it any been but she.
Had it any been but she, And that very face, There had been at least ere this A dozen dozen in her place.

Written by Sir John Suckling |

I prithee spare me gentle boy

 I prithee spare me gentle boy,
Press me no more for that slight toy,
That foolish trifle of an heart;
I swear it will not do its part,
Though thou dost thine, employ'st thy pow'r and art.
For through long custom it has known The little secrets, and is grown Sullen and wise, will have its will, And like old hawks pursues that still That makes least sport, flies only where't can kill.
Some youth that has not made his story, Will think perchance the pain's the glory, And mannerly sit out love's feast; I shall be carving of the best, Rudely call for the last course 'fore the rest.
And oh when once that course is past, How short a time the feast doth last; Men rise away and scarce say grace, Or civilly once thank the face That did invite, but seek another place.

Written by Sir John Suckling |

If you refuse me once and think again

 If 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.
Or do you think they more than once can die, Whom you deny? Who tell you of a thousand deaths a day, Like the old poets feign And tell the pain They met, but in the common way? Or do you think 't too soon to yield, And quit the field? Nor is that right, they yield that first entreat; Once one may crave for love, But more would prove This heart too little, that too great.
Oh that I were all soul, that I might prove For you as fit a love As you are for an angel; for I know, None but pure spirits are fit loves for you.
You are all ethereal; there's in you no dross, Nor any part that's gross.
Your coarsest part is like a curious lawn, The vestal relics for a covering drawn.
Your other parts, part of the purest fire That e'er Heav'n did inspire, Makes every thought that is refin'd by it A quintessence of goodness and of wit.
Thus have your raptures reach'd to that degree In love's philosophy, That you can figure to yourself a fire Void of all heat, a love without desire.
Nor in divinity do you go less; You think, and you profess, That souls may have a plenitude of joy, Although their bodies meet not to employ.
But I must needs confess, I do not find The motions of my mind So purified as yet, but at the best My body claims in them an interest.
I hold that perfect joy makes all our parts As joyful as our hearts.
Our senses tell us, if we please not them, Our love is but a dotage or a dream.
How shall we then agree? you may descend, But will not, to my end.
I fain would tune my fancy to your key, But cannot reach to that obstructed way.
There rests but this, that whilst we sorrow here, Our bodies may draw near; And, when no more their joys they can extend, Then let our souls begin where they did end.

Written by Sir John Suckling |

Why so Pale and Wan?

 WHY so pale and wan, fond lover? 
 Prithee, why so pale? 
Will, when looking well can't move her, 
 Looking ill prevail? 
 Prithee, why so pale? 

Why so dull and mute, young sinner? 
 Prithee, why so mute? 
Will, when speaking well can't win her, 
 Saying nothing do 't? 
 Prithee, why so mute? 

Quit, quit for shame! This will not move; 
 This cannot take her.
If of herself she will not love, Nothing can make her: The devil take her!