Thomas Humphry Ward, ed. The English Poets. 1880–1918.rnVol. II. The Seventeenth Century: Ben Jonson to Dryden

Sir John Suckling (1609–1642)

Truth in Love

OF thee, kind boy, I ask no red and white,

To make up my delight:

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 cosenage 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;

What in our watches, that in us is found,—

So to the height and nick

We up be wound,

No matter by what hand or trick.