WHY SO PALE.

SIR JOHN SUCKLING.

Born 1613-Died 1641.

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.

[This Song is sung by Orsames in Suckling's "Aglaura." It con. tains says Orsames," a little foolish counsel, 1 gave a friend of mine four or five years ago, when he was falling into a consumption."]

SEND ME BACK MY HEART.

SIR JOHN SUCKLING.

I prythee send me back my heart,
Since I cannot have thine:

For if from yours you will not part,
Why then should'st thou have mine?

Yet now I think on't, let it lie,
To find it, were in vain :
For thou'st a thief in either eye
Wou'd 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 resolv'd

I then am in most doubt.

Then farewell care, and farewell woe

I will no longer pine:

For I'll believe I have her heart

As much as she has mine.

[George Ellis tells us that "the grace and elegance of Suckling's Songs and Ballads are inimitable."]

TO CYNTHIA, ON CONCEALMENT OF HER BEAUTY.

SIR FRANCIS KINASTON.

Born about 1616.

Do not conceal thy radiant eyes,
The star-light of serenest skies;
Lest wanting of their heavenly light,
They turn to chaos' endless night!

Do not conceal those tresses fair,
The silken snares of thy curl'd hair;
Lest finding neither gold nor ore,
The curious silk-worm work no more!

Do not conceal those breasts of thine,
More snow-white than the Apennine;
Lest, if there be like cold and frost,
The lily be for ever lost!

Do not conceal that fragrant scent,
Thy breath, which to all flowers hath lent
Perfumes; lest, it being supprest,

No spices grow in all the East!

Do not conceal thy heavenly voice,

Which makes the hearts of Gods rejoice;

Lest, music hearing no such thing,

The nightingale forget to sing!

Do not conceal, nor yet eclipse,
Thy pearly teeth with coral lips;

Lest, that the seas cease to bring forth
Gems which from thee have all their worth!

Do not conceal no beauty, grace
That's either in thy mind or face;
Lest Virtue overcome by Vice
Make men believe no Paradise.

TO A COY LADY.

ALEXANDER BROME.

Born 1620-Died 1666.

I prithee leave this peevish fashion,
Dont desire to be high-priz'd,
Love's a princely noble passion,
And doth scorn to be despis'd.
Though we say you're fair, you know
We your beauty do bestow,

For our fancy makes you so.

Dont be proud 'cause we adore you, We do't only for our pleasure; And those parts in which you glory We by fancy weigh and measure. When for deities you go,

For angels or for queens, pray know 'Tis our own fancy makes you so.

Dont suppose your Majesty

By tyranny's best signified,
And your angelic Natures be

Distinguished only by your pride.
Tyrants make subjects rebels grow,
And pride makes angels devils below,
And your pride may make you so!

THE MAD LOVER.

ALEXANDER BROME.

I have been in love, and in debt, and in drink

This many and many year;

And those three are plagues enough, one would think, For one poor mortal to bear.

'Twas drink made me fall into love, And love made me run into debt;

And though I have struggled, and struggled and strove, I cannot get out of them yet.

There's nothing but money can cure me,

And rid me of all my pain; "Twill pay all my debts,

And remove all my lets;

And my mistress that cannot endure me,

Will love me, and love me again :

Then I'll fall to loving and drinking again.

[Brome is supposed to have written many Songs against the Rump Parliament.]

THE RESOLVE.

ALEXANDER BROME.

Tell me not of a face that's fair,
Nor lip and cheek that's red,
Nor of the tresses of her hair,
Nor curls in order laid;