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Love is the fart Of every heart It pains the man when 'tis kept close, And others doth offend, when 'tis let loose.

John Suckling

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John Suckling
Kept
Close
Pain
Fart
Others
Offend
Heart
Pains
Every
Doth
Men
Loose
Love
Cynical

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I prithee send me back my heart, Since I cannot have thine For if from yours you will not part, Why, then, shouldst thou have mine?
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'Tis expectation makes a blessing dear.
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But as when an authentic watch is shown, Each man winds up and rectifies his own, So in our very judgments.
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Beauties that from worth arise are like the grace of deities.
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A quiet mediocrity is still to be preferred before a troubled superfluity.
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If I a fancy take To black and blue, That fancy doth it beauty make.
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Joy never feasts so high as when the first course is of misery.
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Out upon it, I have loved Three whole days together And am like to love three more, If it prove fair weather.
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Tis love in love that makes the sport.
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A health to the nut-brown lass, With the hazel eyes: let it pass. . . . . As much to the lively grey 'Tis as good i' th' night as day: . . . . She's a savour to the glass, And excuse to make it pass.
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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?
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She is pretty to walk with, And witty to talk with, And pleasant, too, to think on.
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