The school that flourished in this age, and devoted its muse to gay and
amorous poetry, was but a natural reaction from the stern, harsh views
of the Puritan, who despised and condemned _belles lettres_ as the
wickedness of sin and folly. Suckling's poems are few in number, and,
with rare exceptions, are all brief. The most lengthy is the _Sessions
of the Poets_, a satire upon the poets of his day, from rare Ben Jonson,
with Carew and Davenant, down to those of less note--

'Selwin and Walter, and Bartlett both the brothers,
Jack Vaughan, and Porter, and divers others.'

The versification is defective, but the satire is piquant, and no doubt
discriminating and just. At any rate, what the poet says of himself hits
the truth nearer than confessions commonly do:

'Suckling next was called, but did not appear;
But straight one whispered Apollo i' the ear,
That of all men living he cared not for't--
He loved not the muses so well as his sport;
And prized black eyes, or a lucky hit
At bowls, above all the trophies of wit.'

In Suckling's love-songs we discover the brilliancy of Sedley, the
_abandon_ of Rochester, (though hardly carried to so scandalous an
extreme) and a strength and fervor which, with care for the minor
matters of versification and melody, might have equaled or even
surpassed the best strains of Herrick. In a complaint that his mistress
will not return her heart for his that she has stolen, he says:

'I prithee send me back my heart,
Since I can not have thine;
For if from yours you will not part,
Why, then, shouldst thou have mine?

'Yet, now I think on't, let it lie;
To find it were in vain:
For thou'st a thief in either eye
Would steal it back again.'

The following, which has always been a favorite, was originally sung by
Orsames in _Aglaura_, who figures in the _dramatis personae_ as an
'anti-Platonic young lord':

'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 can not take her;
If of herself she will not love,
Nothing can make her--
The devil take her!'

We are tempted to add s