SIR JOHN SUCKLING. 1609-1641. SUCKLING was a gay, careless, dissipated fellow, but high-bred and noble withal-a compound of the gentleman and the Bohemian. Addicted to gaming in his younger years, he became the best card-player and bowler in all England, winning and losing large sums of money, occasionally cheating, it is whispered, when the run of luck happened to be against him. His sisters are said to have come one day to the Piccadilly Bowling Green, "crying for the feare he should lose all their portions.” "When at his lowest ebb," says his friend Davenant, "he would make himself glorious in apparel, and said that it exalted his spirits; and that then he had the best luck, when he was most gallant, and his spirits high." He was very fond of the ladies, and made them splendid presents. Aubrey mentions a countess "whom he had highly courted, and had spent on her, in treating her, some thousands of pounds." He used to give magnificent assemblies in London, to which all the court dames, who were beautiful, were invited, and at a banquet on one of these occasions he served up to them for the last course, silk stockings, garters, and gloves! The lady of his love, if he had one, is not known. Pope hints a little scandal about Lady Dorset-"old Lady Dorset," he profanely calls her. "That lady took a very odd pride in boasting of her familiarities with Sir John Suckling. She is the Mistress and Goddess in his poems; and several of these pieces were given by herself to the printer. This the Duke of Buckingham used to give as one instance of the fondness she had to let the world know how well they were acquainted.” Suckling's poems were published in 1646, five years after his death. They were popular in his life-time, many of them being set to music by Mr. Henry Lawes, a gentleman of the King's chapel. Milton's nephew, Edward Phillips, who in his criticisms is supposed to reflect the opinions of his illustrious uncle, says they "have a pretty touch of a gentile Spirit, and seem to savour more of the Grape than Lamp." "Tis now, since I set down before (Time strangely spent!) a year, or more, Made my approaches, from her hand And did already understand The language of her eyes; Proceeded on with no less art, My tongue was engineer; I thought to undermine the heart, When this did nothing, I brought down A thousand thousand to the town, I then resolved to starve the place, To draw her out, and from her strength, And brought myself to lie, at length, When I had done what man could do, The enemy lay quiet too, And smiled at all was done. I sent to know, from whence, and where, These hopes, and this relief? A spy informed, Honour was there, And did command in chief. March, march (quoth I), the word straight give, Let's lose no time, but leave her; That giant upon air will live, And hold it out forever. To such a place our camp remove, I hate a fool that starves her love, SONG. Out upon it! I have loved Time shalt moult away his wings, In the whole wide world again, But the spite on't is, no praise Love with me had made no stays, Had it any been but she, And that very face, There had been at least ere this SONNET I. Do'st see how unregarded now That piece of beauty passes? There was a time when I did vow But mark the fate of faces; The red and white works now no more on me, Than if it could not charm, or I not see. And yet the face continues good, And I have still desires; And still the self-same flesh and blood, And suffer from those fires; O some kind power unriddle where it lies, She every day her man does kill, Neither her power then, nor my will, What is the mystery? Sure beauty's empires, like to greater states, Have certain periods set, and hidden fates. SONNET II. Of thee (kind boy) I ask no red and white, No odd, becoming graces, Black eyes, or little know-not-whats, in faces: Make me but mad enough, give me good store Of love for her I court, I ask no more; 'Tis love in love that makes the sport. There's no such thing as that we beauty call, It is mere cozenage all; For though some long ago Liked certain colours, mingled so, and so, That doth not tie me now from choosing new; If I a fancy take 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 than another, that a pheasant is. We up be wound, No matter by what hand, or trick. SONG. I prithee send me back my heart, For if from your's you will not part, Yet now I think on 't, let it lie, For thou 'st a thief in either eye Why should two hearts in one breast lie, O Love, where is thy sympathy, But love is such a mystery, I cannot find it out; For when I think I'm best resolved, Then farewell care, and farewell woe, For I'll believe I have her heart, As much as she has mine. |