Prythee, why so mute?

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!

The poetic energy in Keats is here entirely undisturbed. I do not mean that
it is not united to any other energy--though here it happens not to be--as
in poetic drama, where it is united to the dramatic energy and is still
undisturbed in its full activity, but that it is here freely allowed to
work itself out to its consummation without any concession, conscious or
unconscious, to any mood that is not non-poetic but definitely anti-poetic,
in which case, although unchanged in its nature, it would be constrained in
a hostile atmosphere. Keats's words are struck out of a mood that tolerates
nothing but its own full life and is concerned only to satisfy that life by
uncompromising expression. The result is pure poetry, or lyric. But when
we come to Suckling's lines we find that there is a difference. The poetic
energy is still here. Suckling has quite clearly experienced something in
a mood of more than common intensity. It does not matter that the material
which has been subjected to the mood is not in itself very profound or
passionate. Another poet, Wither, with material curiously like Suckling's
to work upon, achieves poetry as unquestionable if not so luxuriant as
Keats's.

Shall I, wasting in despair,
Die because a woman's fair?
Or make pale my cheeks with care
Because another's rosy are?