Mr. Lloyd, in his memoirs of our author, observes, that his thoughts were not so loose as his expressions, nor his life so vain as his thoughts; and at the same time makes an allowance for his youth and sanguine complexion; which, says he, a little more time and experience would have corrected.  Of this, we have instances in his occasional discourses about religion to my Lord Dorset, to whom he was related; and in his thoughts of the posture of affairs; in both which he has discovered that he could think as coolly, and reason as justly as men of more years, and less fire.

To a Lady that forbad to love before company.

  What! no more favours, not a ribbon more,
  Not fan, nor muff, to hold as heretofore? 
  Must all the little blesses then be left,
  And what was once love’s gift become our theft? 
  May we not look ourselves into a trance,
  Teach our souls parley at our eyes, not glance,
  Nor touch the hand, but by soft wringing there,
  Whisper a love that only yes can hear. 
  Not free a sigh, a sigh that’s there for you,
  Dear must I love you, and not love you too? 
  Be wise, nice fair; for sooner shall they trace,
  The feather’d choristers from place to place,
  By prints they make in th’ air, and sooner say
  By what right line, the last star made its way,
  That fled from heaven to earth, than guess to know,
  How our loves first did spring, or how they grow.

The above are as smooth lines as could be found among our author’s works; but in justice to Suckling, before we give an account of his plays, we shall transcribe one of his letters, when we are persuaded the reader will join in the opinion already given of his works in general; it is addressed to his mistress, and has something in it gay and sprightly.

This verifies the opinion of Mr. Dryden, that love makes a man a rhimster, if not a poet.

  My Dear, Dear!

Think I have kissed your letter to nothing, and now know not what to answer; or that now I am answering, I am kissing you to nothing, and know not how to go on!  For you must pardon, I must hate all I send you here, because it expresses nothing in respect of what it leaves behind with me.  And oh! why should I write then?  Why should I not come myself?  Those Tyrants, Business, Honour, and Necessity, what have they to do with with you, and me?  Why Should we not do Love’s Commands before theirs, whose Sovereignty is but usurped upon us?  Shall we not smell to Roses, cause others do look on, or gather them because there are Prickles, or something that would hinder us?——­Dear——­I fain would and know no Hindrance——­but what must come from you,——­and——­why should any come?  Since ’tis not I but you must be sensible how much Time we lose, it being long since I was not myself,——­but——­

  “Yours.”——­

His dramatic works are,

1.  Aglaura, presented at a private House in Black Fryars.  Langbaine says, ’that it was much prized in his Time; and that the last Act is so altered, that it is at the pleasure of the Actors to make it a Tragedy, or Tragi-Comedy.’