Sir John Suckling

The prince of darkness is a gentleman.

"High characters," cries one, and he would see Things that ne'er were, nor are, nor e'er will be.

Her feet beneath her petticoat Like little mice stole in and out, As if they feared the light; But oh, she dances such a way! No sun upon an Easter-day Is half so fine a sight.

Her lips were red, and one was thin; Compared with that was next her chin,- Some bee had stung it newly.

'T is expectation makes a blessing dear; Heaven were not heaven if we knew what it were.

Her face is like the milky way i' the sky,-- A meeting of gentle lights without a name.

But as when an authentic watch is shown, Each man winds up and rectifies his own, So in our very judgments.

Nick of time.

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?

She is pretty to walk with, And witty to talk with, And pleasant, too, to think on.