Ask me no more if East or West, And in your fragrant bosome dies. Thomas Carew. To Roses in the bosome of Castara. Ee blushing Virgins happy are In the chaste Nunn'ry of her brests, Transplanted thus how bright yee grow; In those white cloysters live secure Till you Then that which living gave you roome, William Habington. 20 ΤΟ OF Sonnet. F thee (kind boy) I ask no red and white no odd becomming graces, Black eyes, or little know-not-whats, in faces; I ask no more, 'Tis love in love that makes the sport. There's no such thing as that we beauty call, it is meer cousenage all ; for though some long ago Like 't certain colours mingled so and so, To black and blue, That fancy doth it beauty make. Tis not the meat, but 'tis the appetite makes eating a delight, and if I like one dish More then another, that a Pheasant is ; What in our watches, that in us is found, We up be wound, No matter by what hand or trick. Sir John Suckling. 10 20 OH Sonnet. H! for some honest Lovers ghost, Whether the nobler Chaplets wear, For what-so-e're they tell us here To make those sufferings dear, T' have lov'd alone will not suffice, And have our Loves enjoy'd. What posture can we think him in, Departs, and 's thither gone n? Where each sits by his own Or how can that Elizium be Where I my Mistresse still must see For there the Judges all are just, Be his whom she held dear; Not his who lov'd her here: The sweet Philoclea since she dy'de Lies by her Pirocles his side, Not by Amphialus. 10 20 Some Bayes (perchance) or Myrtle bough, For difference crowns the brow Of those kind souls that were The noble Martyrs here; And if that be the onely odds (As who can tell) ye kinder Gods, Give me the Woman here. Sir John Suckling. 30 Y dearest Rival, least our Love Mshould with excentrique motion move, Before it learn to go astray, Wee'l teach and set it in a way, And such directions give unto't, That it shall never wander foot. Know first then, we will serve as true ΤΟ 20 Thou shalt set out each part o' th face, Thou shalt be ravisht at her wit; Thou shalt like well that hand, that eye, And in good language them adore: Yea we will sit and sigh a while, And with soft thoughts some time beguile; Thus will we do till paler death For no one stock can ever serve To love so much as shee'l deserve. Song. Sir John Suckling. Ut upon it, I have lov'd Three whole days together; And am like to love three more, Time shall moult away his wings. Ere he shall discover In the whole wide world agen Such a constant Lover. 30 40 |