The Lovers’ Chronicle 10 February – choices – verse by John Suckling – art by Roberto Bompiani

10 February 2024 By Rhett 0 In Random

Dear Zazie, Here is today’s Lovers’ Chronicle from Mac Tag dedicated to his muse. Follow us on twitter @cowboycoleridge. Rhett

The Lovers’ Chronicle

Dear Muse,

a fine line
“Between meant to be”
and accidents happen
“Nice how our thoughts merge”
among other things
“Wait not yet, let’s keep going”
ok, both are influenced
by actions taken or not
“And reactions”
right, the road less traveled
“So all the decisions”
led us here
“What was it you said
about merging”

filled with thoughts

and the memories

of our time together

that will hold

till you fill

my arms again

incomparable Muse,

what an effect you have

have not spent a day

without wantin’ you

have not spent a night

without embracin’ you

now, blessin’ the fates

which brought us here

kept choosin’
to go back

to find and have
what was wanted
only to discover
the havin’
or the wantin’
was wrong

took a long damn time
to figure out, of course,
that it was a search in vain

now the choice is clear
to be here with you

choices and chances
taken and avoided
some hard
some easy
and some fancy

helluva thing
what little separates
the good ones
from the bad
and how hard it is
to tell the difference
between the ones
you should take
and the ones
you should leave alone

“Are all things meant to be
or do things just happen
by accident?”
there are accidents
and there are choices
that must be made
and sometimes
the choices
are not ours to make

i do what i do
because someone
made a choice
“What choice? Who?”

(an answer, maybe because
this would be the last time)

you, the choice you made
(silence, sadness)
“I had no idea.”
you must have
(eyes shut tight,
silent sobs,
and a hug)

how long they stayed
like that…
their only thought,
that this moment
was all that would ever be

Sir John Suckling
Sir John Suckling as painted by Van Dyck.

Today is the birthday of Sir John Suckling (Whitton, London 10 February 1609 – after May 1641); poet and prominent figure among those renowned for careless gaiety and wit, the accomplishments of a Cavalier poet. He was also the inventor of the card game cribbage. He is best known for his poem “Ballad Upon a Wedding”.

In 1634, scandal was caused in his circle by a beating he received at the hands of Sir John Digby, a rival suitor for the daughter of Sir John Willoughby.

The accounts of how he died vary. Alexander Pope, writing in anecdote the next century, stated he had died after arriving in Calaisof fever from a wound in his foot caused by a nail having been driven into his boot by a servant who absconded with his money and papers. He was certainly in Paris in the summer of 1641, when on 3 July Sir Francis Windebanke wrote to his son that Parliament had stopped pensions it had been paying himself, Suckling and Jermyn. One pamphlet related a story of his elopement with a lady to Spain, where he fell into the hands of the Inquisition. A theory that he committed suicide by poison in Paris, in fear of poverty is generally accepted. He was buried at a Protestant cemetery in the city.

Verse

I Prithee Send Me Back My Heart

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?

Yet now I think on’t, let it lie,
To find it were in vain;
For th’hast a thief in either eye
Would steal it back again.

Why should two hearts in one breast lie,
And yet not lodge together?
O love, where is thy sympathy,
If thus our breasts thou sever?

But love is such a mystery,
I cannot find it out;
For when I think I’m best resolv’d,
I then am most in doubt.

Then farewell care, and farewell woe,
I will no longer pine;
For I’ll believe I have her heart
As much as she hath mine.

Song

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 cannot take her.
If of herself she cannot love,
Nothing can make her:
The devil take her!

Oh for some honest lover’s ghost,
Some kind unbodied post
Sent from the shades below!
I strangely long to know
Whether the nobler chaplets wear
Those that their mistress’ scorn did bear,
Or those that were used kindly.
- Oh! For some honest lover’s ghost.

Her feet beneath her petticoat
Like little mice stole in and out,
As if they feared the light;
But oh, she dances such a way!
No sun upon an Easter-day
Is half so fine a sight.
- Ballad upon a Wedding.

Today is the birthday of Roberto Bompiani (Rome; February 10, 1821 – January 19, 1908 Rome); painter and sculptor.

Gallery