SUCKLIN G.

BORN, 1609-died, 1641.

SIR JOHN SUCKLING, son of the Comptroller of the Household to Charles the First, was so true a wit, and hit so delightful a point between the sentiment of the age of Elizabeth and the gallantry of the Stuarts, that it is provoking to be unable to give some of his best pieces at all in a publication like the present, and only one or two short ones without mutilation. He comes among a herd of scented fops with careless natural grace, and an odour of morning flowers upon him. You know not which would have been most delighted with his compliments, the dairy maid or the duchess. He was thrown too early upon a town life; otherwise a serious passion for some estimable woman, which (to judge from his graver poetry) he was very capable of entertaining, might have been the salvation of him. As it was, he died early, and, it is said, not happily; but this may have been the

report of envy or party-spirit; for he was a great loyalist. It is probable, however, that he excelled less as a partizan than as a poet and a man of fashion. He is said to have given a supper to the ladies of his acquaintance, the last course of which consisted of millinery and trinkets. The great Nelson's mother was a Suckling of the same stock, in Norfolk.

Steele, in the Tatler (No. 40), not undeservedly quotes a passage from Suckling, side by side with one about Eve from Milton. It is in his tragedy of Brennoralt, where a lover is looking on his sleeping mistress :

"Her face is like the milky way i' the sky,

A meeting of gentle lights without a name."

Feelings like these enabled his fair friends to put up with such pleasant contradictions to sentiment as the following :—

THE CONSTANT LOVER.

Out upon it, I have lov'd

Three whole days together;

And am like to love three more,
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.

L

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.1

1 “ A dozen in her place."-This song is the perfection of easy, witty, light yet substantial writing. There is no straining after thoughts or images, and not a word out of its place, or more words than there ought to be, unless we except the concluding verse of the third stanza; and this seems to overrun its bounds with a special propriety,-besides the grace of its repetition in the stanza following. Here follows another short piece, which can also be given entire. The last line has a vivacity and novelty delightfully unexpected; but I am afraid it was suggested by a similar turn in one of our old dramatists, though I cannot recollect which.

THE REMONSTRANCE.

Why so pale and wan, fond lover?

Prythee, why so pale?

Will, when looking well can't move her,

Looking ill prevail?

Prythee, why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
Prythee, why so mute?

Will, when speaking well can't win her,
Saying nothing do 't?

Prythee, 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.

Suckling was the first writer (in English) of those critical Sessions, or gatherings together of the poets for the adjustment of their claims to superiority, which gave rise to similar pleasantries on the part of Rochester, Sheffield, and others. Sir John's Sessions of the Poets seems to have been poured forth at a sitting, as heartily as his bottle. It has all the negligence, but at the same time spirit, of a first impulsive sketch; and perhaps it might have been hurt by correction; though such a verse as the second in the fifth stanza

could hardly have been intended to remain. The whole poem is here given almost verbatim.

A SESSION OF THE POETS.1

A session was held the other day,
And Apollo himself was at it, they say.
The Laurel, that had been so long reserv'd,
Was now to be given to him best deserv'd:

And therefore the wits of the town came thither,
'T was strange to see how they flock'd together;
Each, strongly confident of his own way,
Thought to bear the laurel away that day.

There was Selden, and he sat close by the chair;
Wenman not far off, which was very fair,
Sands with Townsend, for they kept no order,
Digby and Chillingworth a little further.

There was Lucan's translator too, and he

That makes God speak so big in his poetry ;*

Selwin, and Waller, and Bartlets, both the brothers;

Jack Vaughan and Porter, and divers others.

The first that broke silence was good old Ben,

Prepar'd with Canary wine;

And he told them plainly he deserv'd the bays,

For his were call'd "Works," where others were but Plays:2

And bid them remember how he had purg'd the stage

Of errors that had lasted many an age;

*Who was this?