Sir John Suckling (1609–1642)

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 looked 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 feared the light;

But O, she dances such a way!

No sun upon an Easter day

Is half so fine a sight.

Her cheeks so rare a white was on,

No daisy makes comparison;

Who sees them is undone;

For streaks of red were mingled there,

Such as are on a Cath’rine pear,

The side that’s next the sun.

Her lips were red; and one was thin,

Compared to that was next her chin,

Some bee had stung it newly;

But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face,

I durst no more upon them gaze,

Than on the sun in July.

Her mouth so small, when she does speak

Thou’dst swear her teeth her words did break,

That they might passage get;

But she so handled still the matter,

They came as good as ours, or better,

And are not spent a whit.