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!
About the poet |
Sir John Suckling |
By the same poet |
A Doubt of Martyrdom |
The Constant Lover |
When, Dearest, I but think of Thee |
Related books |
Sir John Suckling at amazon.co.uk |
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