Suckling is also ranked, without sufficient warrant, among the metaphysical poets. Sir John was of ‘the court, courtly;’ and his style almost entirely free from the charge of pedantry and affectation. There are a few blemishes of this kind in his works, but they are but few. His compositions are almost all of them short and lively effusions of wit and gallantry, written in a familiar but spirited style, without much design or effort. His shrewd and taunting address to a desponding lover will sufficiently vouch for the truth of this account of the general cast of his best pieces. ‘Why so pale and wan, fond lover? Pr’ythee why so pale? Will, when looking well can’t move her, Looking ill prevail? Pr’ythee why so pale? Why so dull and mute, young sinner? Pr’ythee why so mute? Will, when speaking well, can’t win her, Saying nothing do ‘t? Pr’ythee 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 two short poems against Fruition, that beginning, ‘There never yet was woman made, nor shall, but to be curst,’—the song, ‘I pr’ythee, spare me, gentle boy, press me no more for that slight toy, that foolish trifle of a heart,’—another, ‘’Tis now, since I sat down before, that foolish fort, a heart,’—_Lutea Alanson_—the set of similes, ‘Hast thou seen the down in the air, when wanton winds have tost it,’—and his ‘Dream,’ which is of a more tender and romantic cast, are all exquisite in their way. They are the origin of the style of Prior and Gay in their short fugitive verses, and of the songs in the Beggar’s Opera. His Ballad on a Wedding is his masterpiece, and is indeed unrivalled in that class of composition, for the voluptuous delicacy of the sentiments, and the luxuriant richness of the images. I wish I could repeat the whole, but that, from the change of manners, is impossible. The description of the bride is (half of it) as follows: the story is supposed to be told by one countryman to another:— ‘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. * * * * *