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!
John Suckling [1609-1642]
WISHES TO HIS SUPPOSED MISTRESS
Whoe'er she be,
That not impossible She
That shall command my heart and me:
Where'er she lie,
Locked up from mortal eye
In shady leaves of destiny:
Till that ripe birth
Of studied Fate stand forth,
And teach her fair steps tread our earth:
Till that divine
Idea take a shrine
Of crystal flesh, through which to shine;
Meet you her, my Wishes,
Bespeak her to my blisses,
And be ye called my absent kisses.
I wish her Beauty
That owes not all its duty
To gaudy tire, or glistering shoe-tie: