The works of Suckling consist of miscellaneous poems, five plays, and some letters. His poems are all short, and the best of them are dedicated to love and gallantry. With the freedom of a cavalier he has greater purity of expression than most of his contemporaries. His sentiments are sometimes voluptuous, but rarely coarse; and there is so much elasticity and vivacity in his verses, that he never becomes tedious. His Ballad upon a Wedding is inimitable for witty levity and choice beauty of expression. It contains touches of graphic description and liveliness equal to the pictures of Chaucer. The following well-known stanza has, perhaps, never been excelled :

Her feet beneath her petticoat,
Like little mice, stole in and out,
As if they fear'd the light;

But oh! she dances such a way!

No sun upon an Easter-day

Is half so fine a sight.

This 'Ballad,' and the fine lines on Detraction which follow it, are the only poems that our space will allow us to introduce from this spirited writer.

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 can not be found
In any place on English ground,
Be it at wake or fair.

At Charing Cross, hard by the way
Where we (thou knowest) 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,

Vorty at least, in pairs.

Amongst the rest, one pest'lent fine,
(His beard no bigger, though, than thine)
Walk'd 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.

1 Whitsun-ales were festive assemblies of the people of whole parishes at Whitsunday.

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:

And to say truth (for out it must),
It look'd like the great collar, (just)
About our young colt's neck.

Her feet beneath her petticoat,
Like little mice stole in and out,
As if they fear'd the light;
But oh! she dances such a way!
No sun upon an Easter-day

Is half so fine a sight.

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 nam'd another's health,
Perhaps he made it her's by stealth,
And who could help it, Dick?

O' th' sudden up they rise and dance;
Then sit again, and sigh, and glance;
Then dance again, and kiss.
Thus sev'ral ways the time did pass,
Till every woman wish'd her place,
And every man wish'd his.

By this time all were stol'n aside
To counsel and undress the bride;
But that he must not know:

But yet 'twas thought he guess'd her mind.
And did not mean to stay behind

Thou vermin slander, bred in abject minds,
Of thoughts impure, by vile tongues animate,
Canker of conversation! could'st thou find

Nought but our love whereon to show thy hate?
Thou never wert, when we two were alone;
What canst thou witness then? thou, base dull aid,
Wast useless in our conversation,

Where each meant more than could by both be said.
Whence hadst thou thy intelligence-from earth?

That part of us ne'er knew that we did love:

Or, from the air? our gentle sighs had birth

From such sweet raptures as to joy did move;

Our thoughts as pure as the chaste morning's breath,
When from the night's cold arms it creeps away,
Were clothed in words, and maiden's blush, that hath
More purity, more innocence than they.

Nor from the water could'st thou have this tale;
No briny tears has furrowed her smooth cheek;
And I was pleas'd: I pray what should he ail,
That had her love; for what else could he seek?
We shorten'd days to moments by love's art,
Whilst our two souls in amorous ecstasy
Perceiv'd no passing time, as if a part
Our love had been of still eternity.

Much less could'st have it from the purer fire;
Our heat exhales no vapour from coarse sense,
Such as are hopes, or fears, or fond desire:
Our mutual love itself did recompense.

Thou hast no correspondence had in heaven,

And th' elemental world, thou see'st is free.
Whence hadst thou, then, this talking monster? even
From hell, a harbour fit for it and thee.

Curst be th' officious tongue that did address
Thee to her ears, to ruin my content:
May it one minute taste such happiness,
Deserving lost, unpitied it lament!

I must forbear her sight, and so repay

In grief, those hours' joy short'ned to a dream;
Each minute I will lengthen to a day,

And in one year outlive Methusalem.

Cartwright, Cleveland, Lovelace and Crashaw close the long list of English miscellaneous poets who have occupied our attention during the last four lectures.

WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT, one of Ben Jonson's sons of the muses, was born at Cirencester, Gloucestershire, in 1611. He received his early education at the free school of his native place, whence he removed to Westminster school, and in 1628 entered Christ College, Oxford. Having remained at Oxford until he had taken his master's degree, he entered into orders, and soon became a very popular preacher in the university. In 1643 he was chosen junior proctor of the university and reader in metaphysics; and was at that time in the habit of studying sixteen hours a day. Toward the close of the same year he unfortunately caught a malignant fever then prevalent at Oxford, and died on the twenty-third of December, 1643, in his thirty-third year. The king, who was at that time at Oxford, went into mourning for Cartwright's death; and when his works were published in 1651, no less than fifty copies of encomiastic verses were prefixed to them by the wits and scholars of that period.

It is difficult to conceive, from the perusal of Cartwright's poems, why he should have obtained such extensive applause and reputation. His pieces are generally short, occasional productions, addressed to ladies and noblemen, or to his brother poets, Fletcher and Jonson; or slight amatory effusions, not distinguished either for elegance or fancy. Admiration of his genius, his youthful virtues, his learning, and his devoted loyalty to the king, seemed to have mainly contributed to his popularity; and his premature death doubtless renewed and deepened the impression of his worth and talents. Cartwright must have cultivated poetry in his youth; for he was only twentysix years old when Ben Jonson died, and previous to that period the veteran poet paid him the compliment to remark, 'My son Cartwright writes all like a man.' The following effusions are both witty and pretty, but possess no higher merit:

THE DREAM.

I dream'd I saw myself lie dead,

And that my bed my coffin grew,

Silence and sleep this strange sight bred,

But, wak'd, I found I liv'd anew. Looking next morn on your bright face,

Mine eyes bequeath'd mine heart fresh pain; A dart rush'd in with every grace,

And so I kill'd myself again :

O eyes, what shall distressed lovers do,
If open you can kill, if shut you view!

TO CUPID.

Thou, who didst never see the light,
Nor know'st the pleasure of the sight,
But always blinded, canst not say,
Now it is night, or now 'tis day;

So captivate her sense, so blind her eye,

That still she love me, yet she ne'er know why.

Thou who dost wound us with such art,

We see no blood drop from the heart,

And, subt❜ly cruel, leav'st no sign

To tell the blow or hand was thine;

O gently, gently wound my fair, that she

May thence believe the wound did come from thee!

TO A LADY VAILED.

So love appear'd, when, breaking out his way
From the dark chaos, he first shed the day;
Newly awak'd out of the bud, so shows
The half seen, half hid glory of the rose,
As you do through your vails; 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 proportion'd, that no more

Was seen, but what might cause men to adore:
Thus is your dress so order'd, 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 I not 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 allow'd,
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 show even veil'd as you.
Blest mean, that checks our hope, and spurs our fear
Whiles all doth not lie hid, nor all appear: