CreationEarth Nature Photos
Submit Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

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.

Search for the best famous William Strode poems, articles about William Strode poems, poetry blogs, or anything else William Strode poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See also:

Written by William Strode |

Of Death and Resurrection

 Like to the rowling of an eye,
Or like a starre shott from the skye,
Or like a hand upon a clock,
Or like a wave upon a rock,
Or like a winde, or like a flame,
Or like false newes which people frame,
Even such is man, of equall stay,
Whose very growth leades to decay.
The eye is turn'd, the starre down bendeth The hand doth steale, the wave descendeth, The winde is spent, the flame unfir'd, The newes disprov'd, man's life expir'd.
Like to an eye which sleepe doth chayne, Or like a starre whose fall we fayne, Or like the shade on Ahaz watch, Or like a wave which gulfes doe snatch Or like a winde or flame that's past, Or smother'd newes confirm'd at last; Even so man's life, pawn'd in the grave, Wayts for a riseing it must have.
The eye still sees, the starre still blazeth, The shade goes back, the wave escapeth, The winde is turn'd, the flame reviv'd, The newes renew'd, and man new liv'd.

Written by William Strode |

On Jealousy

 There is a thing that nothing is,
A foolish wanton, sober wise;
It hath noe wings, noe eyes, noe eares,
And yet it flies, it sees, it heares;
It lives by losse, it feeds on smart,
It joyes in woe, it liveth not;
Yet evermore this hungry elfe
Doth feed on nothing but itselfe.

Written 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.

Written by William Strode |

On His Lady Marie

 Marie, Incarnate Virtue, Soule and Skin
Both pure, whom Death not Life convincd of Sin,
Had Daughters like seven Pleiades; but She
Was a prime Star of greatest Claritie.

Written by William Strode |

On A Friends Absence

 Come, come, I faint: thy heavy stay
Doubles each houre of the day:
The winged hast of nimble love
Makes aged Time not seeme to move:
Did not the light,
And then the night
Instruct my sight
I should believe the Sunne forgot his flight.
Show not the drooping marygold Whose leaves like grieving amber fold: My longing nothing can explain But soule and body rent in twain: Did I not moane, And sigh and groane, And talk alone, I should believe my soul was gone from home.
She's gone, she's gone, away she's fled, Within my breast to make her bed, In me there dwels her tenant woe, And sighs are all the breath I blow: Then come to me, One touch of thee Will make me see If loving thee I live or dead I be.

Written 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.

Written by William Strode |

On Gray Eyes

 Looke how the russet morne exceeds the night,
How sleekest Jett yields to the di'monds light,
So farr the glory of the gray-bright eye
Out-vyes the black in lovely majesty.
A morning mantl'd with a fleece of gray Laughs from her brow and shewes a spotlesse day: This di'mond-like doth not his lustre owe To borrowed helpe, as black thinges cast a show, It needs noe day besides itselfe, and can Make a Cimmeria seeme meridian: Light sees, tis seen, tis that whereby wee see When darknesse in the opticke facultie Is but a single element: then tell Is not that eye the best wherein doth dwell More plenteous light? that organ is divine, And more than eye that is all chrystalline, All rich of sight: oh that perspicuous glasse That lets in light, and lets a light forth passe Tis Lustre's thoroughfare where rayes doe thronge, A burning glasse that fires the lookers-on.
Black eies sett off coarse beauties which they grace But as a beard smutch'd on a swarthy face.
Why should the seat of life be dull'd with shade, Or that be darke for which the day was made? The learned Pallas, who had witt to choose, And power to take, did other eyes refuse, And wore the gray: each country painter blotts His goddesse eyeballs with two smutty spotts.
Corruption layes on blacke; give me the eye Whose lustre dazles paynt and poetrie, That's day unto itselfe; which like the sun Seemes all one flame.
They that his beames will shun Here dye like flyes: when eyes of every kind Faint at the sun, at these the sun growes blind, And skipps behind a cloud, that all may say The Eye of all the world loves to be gray.

Written by William Strode |

On The Death Of Sir Thomas Lea

 You that affright with lamentable notes
The servants from their beef, whose hungry throats
Vex the grume porter's surly conscience:
That blesse the mint for coyning lesse than pence:
You whose unknown and meanly payd desarts
Begge silently within, and knocke at hearts:
You whose commanding worth makes men beleeve
That you a kindnesse give when you receave:
All sorts of them that want, your tears now lend:
A House-keeper, a Patron, and a Friend
Is lodged in clay.
The man whose table fedde So many while he lived, since hee is dead, Himselfe is turn'd to food: whose chimney burn'd So freely then, is now to ashes turn'd.
The man which life unto the Muses gave Seeks life of them, a lasting Epitaph: And hee from whose esteeme all vertues found A just reward, now prostrate in the ground, (Like some huge ancient oake, that ere it fell, Could not be measur'd by the rule so well) Desires a faythfull comment on his dayes, Such as shall neither lye to wrong or prayse: But oh! what Muse is halfe so pure, so strong, What marble sheets can keepe his name so long As onely hee hath lived? then who can tell A perfect story of his living well? The noble fire that spur'd and whetted on His bravely vertuous resolution Could not so soone be quencht as weaker soules Whose feebler sparke an ach or thought controuls.
His life burnt to the snuffe; a snuffe that needs No socket to conceale the stench, but feeds Our sence like costly fumes: his manly breath Felt no disease but age; and call'd for Death Before it durst intrude, or thought to try That strength of limbs, that soules integrity.
Looke on his silver hayres, his graceful browe, And Gravity itselfe might Lea avowe Her father: Time, his schoolmate.
Fifty years Once wedlocke he embrac't: a date that bears Fayre scope, if Soule and Body chance to bee So long a couple as his wife and hee.
But number you his deeds, they so outpasse The largest size of any mortal glasse, That though hee liv'd a thousand, some would crye Alas! he dyde in his minority.
His dayes and deeds would nere be counted even Without Eternity, which now is given.
Such descants poore men make; who miss him more Than sixe great men, that keeping house before After a spurt unconstantly are fledd Away to London.
But the man that's dead Is gone unto a place more populous, And tarries longer there, and waites for us.

Written by William Strode |

On The Picture Of Two Dolphins In A Fountayne

 These dolphins twisting each on either side
For joy leapt upp, and gazing there abide;
And whereas other waters fish doe bring,
Here from the fishes doe the waters spring,
Who think it is more glorious to give
Than to receive the juice whereby they live:
And by this milk-white bason learne you may
That pure hands you should bring or beare away,
For which the bason wants no furniture,
Each dolphin wayting makes his mouth an ewer,
Your welcome then you well may understande
When fish themselves give water to your hand.

Written by William Strode |

To His Sister

 Loving Sister: every line
Of your last letter was so fine
With the best mettle, that the grayne
Of Scrivener's pindust were but vayne:
The touch of Gold did sure instill
Some vertue more than did the Quill.
And since you write noe cleanly hand Your token bids mee understand Mine eyes have here a remedy Wherby to reade more easily.
I doe but jeast: your love alone Is my interpretation: My words I will recant, and sweare I know your hand is wondrous faire.

Written by William Strode |

Epitaph On Mr. Bridgeman

 One pitt containes him now that could not dye
Before a thousand pitts in him did lye;
Soe many spotts upon his flesh were shewne
'Cause on his soule sinne fastned almost none.

Written by William Strode |

On A Great Hollow Tree

 Preethee stand still awhile, and view this tree
Renown'd and honour'd for antiquitie
By all the neighbour twiggs; for such are all
The trees adjoyning, bee they nere so tall,
Comparde to this: if here Jacke Maypole stood
All men would sweare 'twere but a fishing rodde.
Mark but the gyant trunk, which when you see You see how many woods and groves there bee Compris'd within one elme.
The hardy stocke Is knotted like a clubb, and who dares mocke His strength by shaking it? Each brawny limbe Could pose the centaure Monychus, or him That wav'de a hundred hands ere hee could wield That sturdy waight, whose large extent might shield A poore man's tenement.
Greate Ceres' oake Which Erisichthon feld, could not provoke Halfe so much hunger for his punishment As hewing this would doe by consequent.
Nothing but age could tame it: Age came on, And loe a lingering consumption Devour'd the entralls, where an hollow cave Without the workman's helpe beganne to have The figure of a Tent: a pretty cell Where grand Silenus might not scorne to dwell, And owles might feare to harbour, though they brought Minerva's warrant for to bear them out In this their bold attempt.
Looke down into The twisted curles, the wreathing to and fro Contrived by nature: where you may descry How hall and parlour, how the chambers lie.
And wer't not strange to see men stand alone On leggs of skinne without or flesh or bone? Or that the selfe same creature should survive After the heart is dead? This tree can thrive Thus maym'd and thus impayr'd: no other proppe, But only barke remayns to keep it uppe.
Yet thus supported it doth firmly stand, Scorning the saw-pitt, though so neere at hand.
No yawning grave this grandsire Elme can fright, Whilst yongling trees are martyr'd in his sight.
O learne the thrift of Nature, that maintaines With needy myre stolne upp in hidden veynes So great a bulke of wood.
Three columes rest Upon the rotten trunke, wherof the least Were mast for Argos.
Th' open backe below And three long leggs alone doe make it shew Like a huge trivett, or a monstrous chayre With the heeles turn'd upward.
How proper, O how fayre A seate were this for old Diogenes To grumble in and barke out oracles, And answere to the Raven's augury That builds above.
Why grew not this strange tree Neere Delphos? had this wooden majesty Stood in Dodona forrest, then would Jove Foregoe his oake, and only this approve.
Had those old Germans that did once admire Deformed Groves; and worshipping with fire Burnt men unto theyr gods: had they but seene These horrid stumps, they canonizde had beene, And highly too.
This tree would calme more gods Than they had men to sacrifice by odds.
You Hamadryades, that wood-borne bee, Tell mee the causes, how this portly tree Grew to this haughty stature? Was it then Because the mummys of so many men Fattned the ground? or cause the neighbor spring Conduits of water to the roote did bring? Was it with Whitsun sweat, or ample snuffes Of my Lord's beere that such a bignesse stuffes And breaks the barke? O this it is, no doubt: This tree, I warrant you, can number out Your Westwell annals, & distinctly tell The progresse of this hundred years, as well By Lords and Ladies, as ere Rome could doe By Consulships.
These boughes can witnesse too How goodman Berry tript it in his youth, And how his daughter Joane, of late forsooth Became her place.
It might as well have grown, If Pan had pleas'd, on toppe of Westwell downe, Instead of that proud Ash; and easily Have given ayme to travellers passing by With wider armes.
But see, it more desirde Here to bee lov'd at home than there admirde: And porter-like it here defends the gate, As if it once had beene greate Askapate.
Had warlike Arthur's dayes enjoy'd this Elme Sir Tristram's blade and good Sir Lancelot's helme Had then bedeckt his locks, with fertile store Of votive reliques which those champions wore: Untill perhaps (as 'tis with great men found) Those burdenous honours crusht it to the ground: But in these merry times 'twere farre more trimme If pipes and citterns hung on every limbe; And since the fidlers it hath heard so long, I'me sure by this time it deserves my song.

Written 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

Written by William Strode |

Keepe On Your Maske (Version for his Mistress)

 Keepe on your maske and hide your eye
For in beholding you I dye.
Your fatall beauty Gorgon-like Dead with astonishment doth strike.
Your piercing eyes that now I see Are worse than Basilisks to me.
Shut from mine eyes those hills of snow, Their melting vally do not shew: Those azure paths lead to despaire, O vex me not, forbear, forbear; For while I thus in torments dwell The sight of Heaven is worse than Hell.
In those faire cheeks two pits doe lye To bury those slaine by your eye: So this at length doth comfort me That fairely buried I shall be: My grave with Roses, Lillies, spread, Methinks tis life for to be dead: Come then and kill me with your eye, For if you let me live I dye.
When I perceive your lips againe Recover those your eyes have slaine, With kisses that (like balsome pure) Deep wounds as soone as made doe cure, Methinks tis sicknesse to be sound, And there's no health to such a wound.
When in your bosome I behold Two hills of snow yet never cold, Which lovers, whom your beauty kills, Revive by climing those your hills, Methinks there's life in such a death That gives a hope of sweeter breath: Then since one death prevails not where So many antidotes are nere, And your bright eyes doe but in vaine Kill those who live as fast as slaine; That I no more such death survive Your way's to bury me alive In place unknown, and so that I Being dead may live and living dye.

Written by William Strode |

On The Bible

 Behold this little volume here inrolde:
'Tis the Almighty's present to the world:
Hearken earth's earth; each sencelesse thing can heare
His Maker's thunder, though it want an eare:
God's word is senior to his works, nay rather
If rightly weigh'd the world may call it father;
God spake, 'twas done; this great foundation
Is the Creator's Exhalation
Breath'd out in speaking.
The best work of man Is better than his word; but if wee scanne God's word aright, his works far short doe fall; The word is God, the works are creatures all.
The sundry peeces of this generall frame Are dimmer letters, all which spell the same Eternal word; But these cannot expresse His greatnesse with such easy readinesse, And therefore yeild.
The Heavens shall pass away, The sun and moone and stars shall all obey To light one general bonfire; but his word, His builder-upp, his all-destroying sworde, That still survives; no jott of that can dye, Each tittle measures immortalitie.
The word's owne mother, on whose breast did hang The world's upholder drawne into a span, Shee, shee was not so blest because she bare him As cause herselfe was new-born, and did hear him.
Before she had brought forth she heard her Son First speaking in the Annunciation: And then, even then, before she brought forth child, By name of Blessed shee herselfe instilde.
Once more this mighty word his people greets, Thus lapt and thus swath'd upp in paper sheets: Read here God's Image with a zealous eye, The legible and written Deity.