Джон Саклинг (John Suckling)

Sonnet II

Of thee, kind boy, I ask no red and white,
    To make up my delight;
    No odd becoming graces,
Black eyes, or little know-not-whats in faces;
Make me but mad enough, give me good store
Of love for her I count;
    I ask no more,
’Tis love in love that makes the sport.

There’s no such thing as that we beauty call,
    It is mere cozenage all;
    For though some, long ago,
Liked certain colors mingled so and so,
That doth not tie me now from choosing new;
If I a fancy take
    To black and blue,
That fancy doth it beauty make.

’Tis not the meat, but ’tis the appetite
    Makes eating a delight;
    And if I like one dish
More than another, that a pheasant is;
What in our watches, that in us is found:
So to the height and nick
    We up be wound,
No matter by what hand or trick.

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