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Best Famous William Strode Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous William Strode poems. This is a select list of the best famous William Strode poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous William Strode poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of William Strode poems.

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by William Strode |

A Song On The Baths

 What Angel stirrs this happy Well,
Some Muse from thence come shew't me,
One of those naked Graces tell
That Angels are for beauty:
The Lame themselves that enter here
Come Angels out againe,
And Bodies turne to Soules all cleere,
All made for joy, noe payne.
Heate never was so sweetely mett With moist as in this shower: Old men are borne anew by swett Of its restoring pow'r: When crippl'd joynts we suppl'd see, And second lives new come, Who can deny this Font to be The Bodies Christendome? One Bath so fiery is you'l thinke The Water is all Spirit, Whose quick'ning streames are like the drink Whereby we Life inheritt: The second Poole of middle straine Can wive Virginity, Tempting the blood to such a vayne One sexe is He and She.
The third where horses plunge may bring A Pegasus to reare us, And call for pens from Bladud's wing For legging those that beare us.
Why should Physitians thither fly Where Waters med'cines be, Physitians come to cure thereby, And are more cur'd than we

by William Strode |

A Song On A Sigh

 O tell mee, tell, thou god of wynde,
In all thy cavernes canst thou finde
A vapor, fume, a gale or blast
Like to a sigh which love doth cast?
Can any whirlwynde in thy vault
Plough upp earth's breast with like assault?
Goe wynde and blowe thou where thou please,
Yea breathles leave mee to my ease.
If thou be wynde, O then refrayne From wracking whiles I thus complayne: If thou be wynde then light thou art, Yet O! how heavy is my hart! If thou be wynde then purge thy way, Lett cares that clogge thy force obey.
Goe wynde and blow thou where thou please, Yea breathles leave mee to my ease.
Those blasts of sighing raised are By influence of my bright starre; Their ?olus from whom they came Is love that straynes to blow his flame, The powerfull sway of whose behest Makes hearth and bellowes of my breast.
Goe wynde and blowe then where thou please, Yea breathles leave mee to my ease.
Know 'tis a wynde that longs to blowe Upon my Saint wherere shee goe, And stealing through her fanne it beares Soft errands to her lippes and eares, And then perhapps a passage makes Downe to her heart when breath shee takes.
Goe wynde and blowe then where thou please, Yea breathles leave mee to my ease.
Yes, gentle gale, trye that againe, O doe not passe from mee in vayne, Goe mingle with her soule divine Ingendring spiritts like to mine: Yea take my soule along with thee To worke a stronger sympathie: Goe wynde and blowe thou where thou please, Yea breathles leave mee to my ease.
My soule, before my grosser part, Thus to her heaven should departe, And where the body cannott lye On wings of wynde my soule shall flye: If not one soule our bodies joyne, One body shall our soules confine, Goe wynde and blowe thou where thou please, Yea breathles leave mee to my ease.

by William Strode |

A Watch-String

 Tyme's picture here invites your eyes,
See with how running wheeles it flyes!

These strings can do what no man could--
The tyme they fast in prison hold.

by William Strode |

A Watch Sent Home To Mrs. Eliz: King Wrapt In Theis Verses

 Goe and count her better houres;
They more happie are than ours.
The day that gives her any blisse Make it as long againe as tis: The houre shee smiles in lett it bee By thy art increas'd to three: But if shee frowne on thee or mee Know night is made by her not thee: Bee swift in such an houre, and soon Make it night though it bee noone: Obey her tymes, who is the free Fayre sun that governes thee and mee

by William Strode |

A Riddle: On A Kiss

 What thing is that, nor felt nor seene
Till it bee given? a present for a Queene:
A fine conceite to give and take the like:
The giver yet is farther for to seeke;
The taker doth possesse nothing the more,
The giver hee hath nothing lesse in store:
And given once that nature hath it still,
You cannot keepe or leave it if you will:
The workmanshippe is counted very small,
The labour is esteemed naught at all:
But to conclude, this gift is such indeede,
That, if some see't 'twill make theyr hearts to bleede

by William Strode |

A Purse-String

 We hugg, imprison, hang, and save,
This foe, this friend, our Lord, our slave.
While thus I hang, you threatned see The fate of him that stealeth mee.

by William Strode |

A Paralell Between Bowling And Preferment

 Preferment, like a Game at bowles,
To feede our hope with diverse play
Heer quick it runnes, there soft it rowles:
The Betters make and shew the way.
As upper ground, so great Allies Doe many cast on theyr desire: Some uppe are thrust, and forc't to rise, When those are stopt that would aspire.
Some whose heate and zeale exceed Thrive well by Rubbs that curb theyr hast Some that languish in theyr speede Are cherisht by a gentle blast.
Some rest: and others cutting out The same by whome themselves were made: Some fetch a compasse farre about And secretly the marke invade.
Some gett by knocke, and so advance Theyr fortune by a boystrous ayme: And some who have the sweetest chance Theyr mistresse hitt, and winne the game.
The fayrest casts are those that owe No thanks to Fortunes giddy sway: Such honest men good bowles doe throw, Whose owne true Byass cutts the way.

by William Strode |

A New Years Gift

 We are prevented; you whose Presence is
A Publick New-yeares gift, a Common bliss
To all that Love or Feare, give no man leave
To vie a Gift but first he shall receave;
Like as the Persian Sun with golden Eies
First shines upon the Priest and Sacrifice.
Ile on howere; May this yeare happier prove Than all the Golden Age when Vertue strove With nothing but with Vertue; may it bee Such as the Dayes of Saturnes Infancy.
May every Tide and Season joyntly fitt All your Intents and your Occasions hitt: May every Grayne of Sand within your Glass Number a fresh content before it pass.
And when success comes on, stand then each howre Like Josuah's Day, & grow to three or fowre: At last when this yeare rounds and wheeles away, Bee still the next yeare like the old yeares Day.

by William Strode |

A Necklace

 These veines are nature's nett,
These cords by art are sett.
If love himselfe flye here, Love is intangled here.
Loe! on my neck this twist I bind, For to hang him that steales my mynde: Unless hee hang alive in chaynes I hang and dye in lingring paynes.
Theis threads enjoy a double grace, Both by the gemme and by the place

by William Strode |

A Lover To His Mistress

 Ile tell you how the Rose did first grow redde,
And whence the Lilly whitenesse borrowed:
You blusht, and then the Rose with redde was dight:
The Lillies kissde your hands, and so came white:
Before that time each Rose had but a stayne,
The Lilly nought but palenesse did containe:
You have the native colour, these the dye;
They flourish only in your livery