poem index

sign up to receive a new poem-a-day in your inbox

Untitled [Tis now since I sate down before]

Sir John Suckling
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 undermine the heart
By whispering in the ear.
When this did nothing, I brought down
Great Canon-oaths, and shot
A thousand thousand to the Town,
And still it yeelded not.
I then resolv'd to starve the place
By cutting off all kisses,
Praysing and gazing on her face,
And all such little blisses.
To draw her out, and from her strength,
I drew all batteries in:
And brought my self to lie at length
As if no siege had been.
When I had done what man could do,
And thought the place mine owne,
The Enemy lay quiet too,
And smil'd at all was done.
I sent to know from whence, and where,
These hopes, and this relief?
A Spie inform'd, Honour was there,
And did command in chief.
March, march (quoth I) the word straight give,
Lets lose no time, but leave her:
That Giant upon ayre will live,
And hold it out for ever.
To such a place our Camp remove
As will no siege abide;
I hate a fool that starves her Love
Onely to feed her pride.

This poem is in the public domain.

This poem is in the public domain.

Sir John Suckling

by this poet

poem
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
poem
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
poem
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,