Out Upon It!

Out upon it! I have loved

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 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 stay,

Had it any been but she.

Had it any been but she,

And that very, very face,

There had been at least ere this

A dozen dozen in her place.

Sir John Suckling

Song

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!

Sir John Suckling

A Ballad upon a Wedding

I tell thee, Dick, where I have been,

Where I the rarest things have seen,

O, things without compare!

Such sights again cannot be found

In any place on English ground,

Be it at wake or fair.

At Charing Cross, hard by the way

Where we, thou know'st, do sell our hay,

There is a house with stairs;

And there did I see coming down

Such folks as are not in our town,

Forty at least, in pairs.

Amongst the rest, one pest'lent fine

(His beard no bigger, though, than thine)

Walked on before the rest:

Our landlord looks like nothing to him;

The King (God bless him!) 'twould undo him,

Should he go still so dressed.

At course-a-park, without all doubt,

He should have first been taken out

By all the maids i' th' town:

Though lusty Roger there had been,

Or little George upon the Green,

Or Vincent of the Crown.

But wot you what? the youth was going

To make an end of all his wooing;

The Parson for him stayed.

Yet, by his leave, for all his haste,

He did not so much wish all past,

Perchance, as did the maid.

The maid (and thereby hangs a tale),

For such a maid no Whitsun-ale

Could ever yet produce;

No grape that's kindly ripe could be

So round, so plump, so soft, as she,

Nor half so full of juice!

Her finger was so small the ring

Would not stay on, which they did bring;

It was too wide a peck:

And to say truth (for out it must),

It looked like a great collar (just)

About our young colt's neck.

Her feet beneath her petticoat,

Like little mice, stole in and out,

As if they feared the light:

But oh! she dances such a way,

No sun upon an Easter Day

Is half so fine a sight!

He would have kissed her once or twice,

But she would not, she was so nice,

She would not do 't in sight:

And then she looked as who should say

"I will do what I list today,

And you shall do 't at night."

Her cheeks so rare a white was on,

No daisy makes comparison,

(Who sees them is undone),

For streaks of red were mingled there,

Such as are on a Catherine pear,

(The side that's next the sun).

Her lips were red, and one was thin

Compared to that was next her chin, -

(Some bee had stung it newly);

But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face,

I durst no more upon them gaze

Than on the sun in July.

Her mouth so small, when she does speak

Thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break,

That they might passage get;

But she so handled still the matter,

They came as good as ours, or better,

And are not spent a whit.

If wishing should be any sin,

The Parson himself had guilty been,

(She looked that day so purely);

And, did the youth so oft the feat

At night, as some did in conceit,

It would have spoiled him surely.

Just in the nick, the cook knocked thrice,

And all the waiters in a trice

His summons did obey.

Each servingman, with dish in hand,

Marched boldly up, like our trained band,

Presented, and away.

When all the meat was on the table,

What man of knife or teeth was able

To stay to be entreated?

And this the very reason was,

Before the parson could say grace,

The company was seated.

The business of the kitchen's great,

For it is fit that man should eat;

Nor was it there denied.

Passion o' me, how I run on!

There's that that would be thought upon,

I trow, besides the bride.

Now hats fly off, and youths carouse,

Healths first go round, and then the house:

The bride's came thick and thick;

And when 'twas named another's health,

Perhaps he made it hers by stealth.

And who could help it, Dick?

O' th' sudden, up they rise and dance;

Then sit again and sigh and glance;

Then dance again and kiss.

Thus several ways the time did pass,

Whilst every woman wished her place,

And every man wished his!

By this time all were stolen aside

To counsel and undress the bride;

But that he must not know;

And yet 'twas thought he guessed her mind,

And did not mean to stay behind

Above an hour or so.

When in he came, Dick, there she lay

Like new-fallen snow melting away

('Twas time, I trow, to part).

Kisses were now the only stay,

Which soon she gave, as one would say,

"God-be-with-ye, with all my heart."

But, just as Heavens would have, to cross it,

In came the bridesmaids with the posset:

The bridegroom ate in spite;

For, had he left the women to 't,

It would have cost two hours to do 't,

Which were too much that night.

At length the candle's out, and now

All that they had not done they do;

What that is, who can tell?

But I believe it was no more

Than thou and I have done before

With Bridget and with Nell.

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 th' 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 most in 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.

Sir John Suckling