Sir John he got him an ambling nag,

To Scotland for to ride-a,

With a hundred horse more, all his own, he swore,
To guard him on every side-a.

No errant-knight ever went to fight

With half so gay a bravado,

Had you seen but his look, you'd have sworn on a book
He'd have conquered a whole armado.

The ladies ran all to the windows to see
So gallant and warlike a sight-a,
And as he passed by, they began to cry :
'Sir John, why will you go fight-a?'

But he, like a cruel knight, spurred on;
His heart would not relent-a,

For, till he came there, what had he to fear?
Or why should he repent-a?

The king (God bless him!) had singular hopes
Of him and all his troop-a;

The Borderers they, as they met him on the way,
For joy did hollo and whoop-a.

None liked him so well as his own colonell,
Who took him for John de Weart-a;

But when there were shows of gunning and blows,
My gallant was nothing so pert-a.

For when the Scots army came within sight,
And all prepared to fight-a,

He ran to his tent; they asked what he meant ;
He swore he could not go right-a.

The colonell sent for him back agen,

To quarter him in the van-a,

But Sir John did swear he would not come there,
To be killed the very first man-a.

But now there is peace, he's returned to increase
His money, which lately he spent-a ;

But his honour lost must lie still in the dust;

At Berwick away it went-a.

Suckling continued steadfast to the royal cause, even when it seemed desperate. He joined in a scheme to promote the escape of Strafford from the Tower; but the plot being detected, he fled in May 1641 to France, and died shortly afterwards. A hideous story is told of his death. Having robbed him, his valet is said to have put an open razor— one account says a penknife, another a nail-in his master's boot, which divided an artery, and fever and death ensued. Aubrey, however, states that Suckling took poison at Paris, and family tradition confirms the statement-a sufficiently sad close to the life of the cavalier-poet.

Suckling's works consist of miscellaneous poems, four plays-possessing no vivid dramatic interesta short prose treatise on Religion by Reason, and a small collection of letters written in a studied artificial style. His poems are all short, and the best of them are dedicated to love and gallantry. He writes with an irregularity which is absolutely extraordinary. In his Fragmenta Anna will be found, side by side, some of the prettiest and some of the feeblest lyrics of the age. Suckling seems

to have had no self-criticism and no criterion of style. His ambitious compositions are clumsy and confused, and it is only by a few singularly brilliant songs and bursts of genuine feeling that he is able to justify the prominence which his name continues to hold. Among these happy lyrics a leading place must be given to his Ballad upon a Wedding, which is inimitable for its witty levity and artful simplicity of expression. It has touches of graphic description and sprightliness hardly surpassed by earlier or later rivals.

Song.

'Tis now, since I sat 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 less art-
My tongue was engineer;

I thought to undermine the heart
By whispering in the ear.

When this did nothing, I brought down
Great cannon oaths, and shot

A thousand thousand to the town,
And still it yielded not.

I then resolved to starve the place,
By cutting off all kisses,
Praising 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 myself to lie at length,

As if no siege had been.

When I had done what man could do,
And thought the place mine own,
The enemy lay quiet too,

And smiled at all was done.

I sent to know from whence, and where,
These hopes, and this relief?

A spy informed, Honour was there,
And did command in chief.

'March, march,' quoth I; 'the word straight give;
Let's lose no time, but leave her;
That giant upon air 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 for love, Only to feed her pride.'

A Ballad upon a Wedding. 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 stairs;

And there did I see coming down
Such folk as are not in our town,
Forty at least, in pairs.

Amongst the rest, one pestilent fine-
His beard no bigger, though, than mine-
Walked on before the rest :

Our landlord looks like nothing to him:
The king, God bless him! 'twould undo him
Should he go still so drest.

SIR JOHN SUCKLING. From the Portrait by Theodore Russel after Vandyke in the National Portrait Gallery.

At Course-a-park, without all doubt, He should have first been taken out By all the maids o' the town: Though lusty Roger there had been, Or little George upon the green,

Or Vincent of the Crown.

But wot you what? the youth was going
To make an end of all his wooing;
The parson for him staid :
Yet by his leave, for all his haste,
He did not so much wish all past,

Perchance, as did the maid.

The maid, and thereby hangs a tale, For such a maid no Whitsun-ale

Could ever yet produce:

No grape that's kindly ripe could be So round, so plump, so soft as she, Nor half so full of juice.

Her finger was so small, the ring
Would not stay on which they did bring;
It was too wide a peck :

Her mouth so small, when she does speak, Thou 'dst swear her teeth her words did break,

That they might passage get:

But she so handled still the matter,
They came as good as ours, or better,
And are not spent a whit. . . .

Passion o' me! how I run on!

There's that that would be thought upon,
I trow, besides the bride :

The bus'ness of the kitchen's great,
For it is fit that men should eat ;

Nor was it there denied.

Just in the nick, the cook knocked thrice, And all the waiters in a trice

His summons did obey;

Each serving-man, with dish in hand,
Marched boldly up, like our trained band,
Presented, and away.

When all the meat was on the table,
What man of knife or teeth was able

To stay to be entreated?

And this the very reason was,
Before the parson could say grace,
The company was seated.

Now hats fly off, and youths carouse;
Healths first go round, and then the house,
The bride's came thick and thick;
And when 'twas named another's health,
Perhaps he made it hers by stealth,

And who could help it, Dick?

O' the sudden up they rise and dance;
Then sit again, and sigh, and glance:
Then dance again, and kiss.
Thus several ways the time did pass,
Till every woman wished her place,
And every man wished his.

By this time all were stolen aside
To counsel and undress the bride:

But that he must not know:

But yet 'twas thought he guessed her mind, And did not mean to stay behind

Above an hour or so.

The wedding thus immortalised was that in 1641 of Lady Margaret Howard, daughter of the Earl of Suffolk, with Lord Broghill, afterwards Earl of Orrery. Herrick, who had no occasion to steal, took the happy simile of the eighth verse, and spoiled it in the theft : Her pretty feet, like snails, did creep

A little out.

Wycherley also purloined Herrick's simile for one of his plays. The allusion to Easter-day is founded upon an old saying of English country-folk that the sun dances on Easter morning. The 'Dick' of this poem is Richard Lovelace.

Constancy.

Out upon it, I have loved

Three whole days together; And am like to love three mcre, If it prove fair weather.

Time shall moult away his wings,
Ere he shall discover

In the whole wide world again
Such a constant lover.

But the spite on 't is, no praise

Is due at all to me;

Love with me had made no stays,

Had it any been but she.

Had it any been but she,

And that very face,

There had been at least ere this
A dozen in her place.

Song.

I prithee send me back my heart,
Since I can not have thine,
For if from yours you will not part,
Why, then, shouldst thou have mine?

Yet now I think on 't, let it lie;
To find it were in vain ;

For th' hast a thief in either eye
Would 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 resolved,

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 hath mine.

Song.

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.

The Rev. Alfred Suckling published Selections, with a Life (1836), reproduced by W. C. Hazlitt (1874; new ed. 1893); a Memoir is also prefixed to F. A. Stokes's edition (New York, 1885).

Shackerley Marmion (1603-39), minor dramatist, was born at his father's manor of Aynho in Northamptonshire, studied at Wadham College, Oxford, squandered his fortune, and fought in the Low Countries. He left behind an epic, Cupid and Psyche, and three comedies, Holland's Leaguer, A Fine Companion, and The Antiquary. He may be accounted of the tribe of Ben,' and was a scholar of some accomplishment but next to no dramatic power. His plays,

in flowing blank verse, were popular, and are not without vigour and satirical point. They have been repeatedly reprinted, as by Maidment in 1875.

Jasper Mayne (1604-72), a clergyman, wrote two plays which illustrated city manners in the time of Charles I. The first of these, The City Match (1639), is easy and funny, but none too moral for the work of a clerk in holy orders; the second, entitled The Amorous War (1648), is a farcical tragi-comedy, and, like its predecessor, is spiced with improprieties. One lyric in it deserves to be better known. Mayne was born at Hatherleigh, Devon; from Westminster proceeded to Christ Church, Oxford; in 1639 became vicar of Cassington, and in 1648 of Pyrton; and at the Restoration was appointed Archdeacon of ChichesHe has even been compared to Dean Swift, though little remains to justify the comparison. Besides his plays, he wrote occasional poems and translated Lucian's Dialogues. The Puritans found no favour with this splenetic humorist, who thus makes capital of a Puritanical waiting-maid:

ter.

Poor lady had such unbred holiness
About her person; I am never drest
Without a sermon; but am forced to prove
The lawfulness of curling-irons before
She'll crisp me in a morning. I must shew
Texts for the fashions of my gowns. She'll ask
Where jewels are commanded? Or what lady
I' the primitive times wore ropes of pearl or rubies?
She will urge councils for her little ruff,
Called in Northamptonshire; and her whole service
Is a mere confutation of my clothes.

Ban. Why, madam, I assure you, time hath been, However she be otherwise, when she had

A good quick wit, and would have made to a lady A serviceable sinner.

She were inspired from Ipswich, she will make The Acts and Monuments in sweetmeats; quinces, Arraigned and burned at a stake; all my banquets Are persecutions; Diocletian's days

Are brought for entertainment; and we eat martyrs. Ban. Madam, she is far gone.

Aur. Nay, sir, she is a Puritan at her needle too. Ban. Indeed!

Aur. She works religious petticoats; for flowers
She 'll make church histories. Her needle doth
So sanctify my cushionets! Besides,
My smock-sleeves have such holy embroideries,
And are so learned that I fear, in time,

All my apparel will be quoted by
Some pure instructor. Yesterday I went

To see a lady that has a parrot; my woman,
While I was in discourse, converted the fowl;
And now it can speak nought but Knox's works;
So there's a parrot lost.

Are married, madam; of a quick-feigning head?
Aur. You wrong me, Bannswright: she whom I
would have

Must to her handsome shape have virtue too.
Ban. Well, madam, I shall fit you. I do know
A choleric lady which, within these three weeks,
Has, for not cutting her corns well, put off
Three women; and is now about to part
With the fourth--just one of your description.
Next change o' th' moon or weather, when her feet
Do ache again, I do believe I shall

Northamptonshire was at this time a Puritan region. From Ipswich Prynne wrote (and named) one of his violent pamphlets. Preferred or promoted to New England, banished to the plantations. Goody Hofman was a character in a forgotten play. For Histriomastix, see under Prynne at page 564.

Thomas Killigrew (1612-83), son of a knight and courtier of Cornish family, was born in London, and served as page in the household of Charles I. Afterwards a dissolute companion of Charles II. in exile and his groom of the bedchamber after the Restoration, he in 1660 received a patent along with D'Avenant to erect two new theatres and raise two new companies of actors, and finally superseded his rivals as Master of the Revels. His patent secured for him the right-new in England -to give the female parts to women. The plays include tragedies, tragi-comedies, and comedies, some of them apparently not intended for the stage. They were all printed in folio in 1664. The Par son's Wedding, reprinted by Dodsley, is outrageously coarse, and tedious as well, though not without jokes, some of which Congreve copied or imitated. A study of the plays seems to justify one part of Denham's criticism:

Had Cowley ne'er spoke, Killigrew ne'er writ,
Combined in one they'd made a matchless wit;

yet his credit as a wit was high, in spite of Denham and his own plays. His son, Thomas Killigrew the younger (1657–1719), was groom of the chamber to the Prince of Wales (George II.) when he published the trifling but amusing comedy Chit Chat. The elder Killigrew's brother, sir William Killigrew (1606-95), fought in the Civil War, and wrote a comedy, Pandora, and three tragicomedies, Selindra, Ormasdes, and The Siege of Urbin.

William Cartwright (1611-43) was admitted to the inner circle of Ben Jonson, who said of him, 'My son Cartwright writes all like a man.' His contemporaries loved him living, and deplored his early death. Born at Northway, near Tewkesbury, he was the son of an innkeeper at Cirencester who had squandered away a patrimonial estate. In 1635, after completing his education at Westminster and Christ Church, Oxford, Cartwright took holy orders; and as a zealous royalist he was imprisoned by the Parliamentary forces when they arrived in Oxford in 1642. In 1643, when he was chosen junior proctor of the university, and was also reader in metaphysics, he was said to have studied sixteen hours a day. Stricken with the malignant fever or camp-disease' prevalent at Oxford, he died November 23, 1643. The king, who was then at Oxford, went into mourning for his death; and when his works were published in 1651, no less than fifty-six copies of encomiastic verses were prefixed to them by the wits and scholars of the time, including Dr Fell (who was not always so amiable !), Vaughan

the Silurist, and Izaak Walton. It is difficult to conceive, after reading Cartwright's works, why he should have obtained such extraordinary applause and reputation. His pieces are mostly short occasional poems, panegyrics of the king and royal family, addresses to ladies, noblemen, and his brother - poets Fletcher and Jonson, or slight amatory effusions not distinguished for elegance or fancy, though their conceits entitle him to a conspicuous place in the fantastic school.' His youthful virtues, his learning and loyalty, his singularly handsome person and winning manners, seem to have mainly contributed to his popularity, and his premature death would renew and deepen the impression of his gifts and graces. He is reported by Anthony Wood 'the most florid and seraphic preacher in the university.' Cartwright was only twenty-six when Ben Jonson died, and the compliment quoted above proves that he had then been busy with his pen. He mourned the loss of his poetical father in one of his best poems, thus commending Jonson's dramatic powers:

But thou still puts true passion on; dost write With the same courage that tried captains fight; Giv'st the right blush and colour unto things; Low without creeping, high without loss of wings; Smooth yet not weak, and, by a thorough care, Big without swelling, without painting, fair. His three 'tragi-comedies,' The Royal Slave, The Lady-Errant, and The Siege, are rhetorical and artificial; his comedy, more comic than really humorous, is an imitation of Jonson's manner, and handles the Puritans roughly. The title of The Lady-Errant itself suggests a dream of the new woman, and still more the opening speech:

And if you see not women plead and judge,
Raise and depress, reward and punish, carry
Things how they please, and turn the politique door
Upon new hinges very shortly, never

Believe the oracle.

But the story resolves itself into a fantastic rebellion of the princesses and ladies of Cyprus when their lords are at the wars in Crete, to be carried out by lances, falchions, javelins and helmets, armour, and ordinary military methods, till the scheme is thwarted by the triumph of true love. In spite of the unanimous agreement of the ladies-

Our souls are male as theirs.

That we have hitherto forborn t' assume
And manage thrones, that hitherto we have not
Challenged a sovereignty in arts and arms,
And writ ourselves imperial, hath been
Men's tyranny and our modesty :

and in spite of eloquent adjurations

Let us i' th' name of honour rise unto
The pitch of our creation--

they prove mere weak, loving women, and cheerfully return to subjection again.

'Lesbia's lament over her dead Sparrow, which picked crumbs, fed from its mistress's trencher or lip, and said "Philip," shows that Cartwright knew, or at least knew of, Skelton's Phylyp Sparowe

(page 115). And his address or ode to Sir Francis Kynaston, upon the translation of Chaucer's Troilus and Creseide,' has its own interest:

Tis to your happy cares we owe that we
Read Chaucer now without a dictionary.
He that hitherto

Was dumb to strangers and his own country too,
Speaks plainly now to all.

Parthenia and Argalus shows that the Arcadia was still a source of inspiration.

To a Lady Veiled.

So Love appeared, when, breaking out his way
From the dark chaos, he first shed the day;
Newly awaked out of the bud, so shews
The half-seen, half-hid glory of the rose,
As you do through your veils; and I may swear,
Viewing you so, that beauty doth bide there.
So Truth lay under fables, that the eye
Might reverence the mystery, not descry;
Light being so proportioned, that no more
Was seen, but what might cause 'em to adore :
Thus is your dress so ordered, so contrived,
As 'tis but only poetry revived.

Such doubtful light had sacred groves, where rods
And twigs at last did shoot up into gods;
Where, then, a shade darkeneth the beauteous face,
May not I pay a reverence to the place?
So under water glimmering stars appear,
As those-but nearer stars-your eyes do here;
So deities darkened sit, that we may find
A better way to see them in our mind.
No bold Ixion, then, be here allowed,
Where Juno dares herself be in the cloud.
Methinks the first age comes again, and we
See a retrieval of simplicity.

Thus looks the country virgin, whose brown hue
Hoods her, and makes her shew even veiled as you.
Blest mean, that checks our hope, and spurs our fear,
Whiles all doth not lie hid, nor all appear!
O fear ye no assaults from bolder men ;
When they assail, be this your armour then.
A silken helmet may defend those parts
Where softer kisses are the only darts!

A Valediction.

Bid me not go where neither suns nor showers
Do make or cherish flowers;
Where discontented things in sadness lie,
And Nature grieves as I;
When I am parted from those eyes
From which my better day doth rise,
Though some propitious power
Should plant me in a bower,

Where, amongst happy lovers, I might see
How showers and sunbeams bring

One everlasting spring;

Nor would those fall, nor these shine forth to me.

Nature herself to him is lost,

Who loseth her he honours most.

Then, fairest, to my parting view display

Your graces all in one full day;

Whose blessed shapes I'll snatch and keep, till when

I do return and view again :

So by this art, fancy shall fortune cross,
And lovers live by thinking on their loss.