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Against Fruition

Sir John Suckling
Fye upon hearts that burn with mutual fire;
I hate two minds that breath but one desire:
Were I to curse th'unhallow'd sort of men,
I'de wish them to love, and be lov'd agen.
Love's a Camelion, that lives on meer ayre;
And surfets when it comes to grosser fare:
'Tis petty Jealousies, and little fears,
Hopes joyn'd with doubts, and joyes with April tears,
That crowns our Love with pleasures: these are gone
When once we come to full Fruition.
Like waking in a morning, when all night
Our fancy hath been fed with true delight.
Oh! what a stroke't would be! Sure I should die,
Should I but hear my mistresse once say, I.
That monster expectation feeds too high
For any Woman e're to satisfie:
And no brave Spirit ever car'd for that
Which in Down-beds with ease he could come at.
Shee's but an honest whore that yeelds, although
She be as cold as ice, as pure as snow:
He that enjoys her hath no more to say
But keep us Fasting if you'l have us pray.
Then fairest Mistresse, hold the power you have,
By still denying what we still do crave:
In Keeping us in hopes strange things to see
That never were, nor are, nor e're shall be.

This poem is in the public domain.

This poem is in the public domain.

Sir John Suckling

by this poet

There never yet was honest man
That ever drove the trade of love;
It is impossible, nor can
Integrity our ends promove:
For Kings and Lovers are alike in this
That their chief art in reigne dissembling is.
Here we are lov'd, and there we love,
Good nature now and passion strive
Which of the two should be above,
Tis now since I sate down before
That foolish Fort, a heart;
(Time strangely spent) a Year, and more,
And still I did my part:
Made my approaches, from her hand
Unto her lip did rise,
And did already understand
The language of her eyes.
Proceeded on with no lesse Art,
My Tongue was Engineer;
I thought to
I tell thee, Dick, where I have been,
Where I the rarest things have seen;
      Oh, 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