by Sir John Suckling

O ! for some honest lover's ghost,
                     Some kind unbodied post
                     Sent from the shades below !
                     I strangely long to know,
Whether the noble chaplets wear,
Those that their mistress' scorn did bear,
                     Or those that were us'd kindly.

For whatsoe'er they tell us here
                     To make those sufferings dear,
                     'Twill there I fear be found,
                     That to the being crown'd
T' have loved alone will not suffice,
Unless we also have been wise,
                     And have our loves enjoy'd.

What posture can we think him in,
                     That here unlov'd again
                     Departs, and 's thither gone
                     Where each sits by his own ?
Or how can that elysium be
Where I my mistress still must see
                     Circled in others' arms ?

For there the judges all are just,
                     And Sophonisba must
                     Be his whom she held dear,
                     Not his who lov'd her here :
The sweet Philoclea, since she died,
Lies by her Pirocles his side,
                     Not by Amphialus.

Some bays, perchance, or myrtle bough,
                     For difference crowns the brow
                     Of those kind souls that were
                     The noble martyrs here ;
And if that be the only odds
(As who can tell ?) ye kinder gods,
                     Give me the woman here.

Suckling, John. The Works of Sir John Suckling. A. Hamilton Thompson, ed.
London: George Routledge & Sons, Ltd., 1910. 16.

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