in dainties; Herrick, that parson-pagan, with the soul of a Greek of the
Anthology, and a cure of souls (Heaven help them!) in Devonshire. His
Julia is the least mortal of these "daughters of dreams and of stories,"
whom poets celebrate; she has a certain opulence of flesh and blood, a
cheek like a damask rose, and "rich eyes," like Keats's lady; no vaporous
Beatrice, she; but a handsome English wench, with

"A cuff neglectful and thereby
Ribbons to flow confusedly;
A winning wave, deserving note
In the tempestuous petticoat."

Then Suckling strikes up a reckless military air; a warrior he is who has
seen many a siege of hearts--hearts that capitulated, or held out like
Troy-town, and the impatient assailant whistles:

"Quit, quit, for shame: this will not move,
This cannot take her.
If of herself she will not love,
Nothing can make her--
The devil take her."

So he rides away, curling his moustache, hiding his defeat in a big
inimitable swagger. It is a pleasanter piece in which Suckling, after a
long leaguer of a lady's heart, finds that Captain honour is governor of
the place, and surrender hopeless. So he departs with a salute:

"March, march (quoth I), the word straight give,
Let's lose no time but leave her:
That giant upon air will live,