Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

CreationEarth Nature Photos

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:

Famous poems below this ad
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 |

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 |

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.

More great poems below...

Written by William Strode |

On The Yong Baronett Portman Dying Of An Impostume Ins Head

 Is Death so cunning now that all her blowe
Aymes at the heade? Doth now her wary Bowe
Make surer worke than heertofore? The steele
Slew warlike heroes onely in the heele.
New found out slights, when men themselves begin To be theyr proper Fates by new found sinne.
Tis cowardize to make a wound so sure; No Art in killing where no Art can cure.
Was it for hate of learning that she smote This upper shoppe where all the Muses wrought? Learning shall crosse her drift, and duly trie All wayes and meanes of immortalitie.
Because her heade was crusht, doth shee desire Our equall shame? In vayne she doth aspire.
No: noe: Wee know where ere shee make a breach Her poysened Sting onely the Heele can reach.
Looke on the Soule of man, the very Heart; The Head itselfe is but a lower parte: Yet hath shee straynde her utmost tyranny, And done her worst in that she came so high.
Had she reservde this stroke for haughty men, For politique Contrivers; justly then The Punishment were matcht with the offence: But when Humility and Innocence So indiscreetly in the Heade are hitt, Death hath done Murther, and shall die for itt: Thinke it no Favour showne because the Braine Is voyde of sence, and therefore free from payne.
Thinke it noe kindness when so stealingly He rather seemde to jest away than die, And like that Innocent, the Widdows childe Cryde out, My head, my head: and so it dyde.
Thinke it was rather double cruelty, Slaughter intended on his Name, that Hee Whose thoughts were nothing taynted, nothing vayne, Might seeme to hide Corruption in his brayne.
How easy might this Blott bee wipte away If any Pen his worth could open lay? For which those Harlott-prayses, which wee reare In common dust, as much too slender are As great for others.
Boasting Elegies Must here bee dumbe.
Desert that overweighs All our Reward stoppes all our Prayse: lest wee Might seeme to give alike to Them and Thee: Wherfore an humble Verse, and such a strayne As mine will hide the truth while others fayne.

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 |

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 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 |

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

Written by William Strode |

On A Gentlewomans Blistred Lipp

 Hide not that sprouting lipp, nor kill
The juicy bloome with bashfull skill:
Know it is an amorous dewe
That swells to court thy corall hewe,
And what a blemish you esteeme
To other eyes a pearle may seeme
Whose watery growth is not above
The thrifty seize that pearles doe love,
And doth so well become that part
That chance may seeme a secret art.
Doth any judge that face lesse fayre Whose tender silke a mole doth beare? Or will a diamond shine less cleare If in the midst a soil appeare? Or else that eye a finer nett Whose glasse is ring'd about with jett? Or is an apple thought more sweete When hony specks and redde doe meete? Then is the lipp made fayrer by Such sweetness of deformitie.
The nectar which men strive to sipp Springs like a well upon your lipp, Nor doth it shew immodesty, But overflowing chastity.
O who will blame the fruitfull trees When too much sapp and gumme hee sees? Here nature from her store doth send Only what other parts can lend; The budde of love which here doth growe Were too too sweete if pluckt belowe; When lovely buddes ascend so high The roote belowe cannot be drye.

Written by William Strode |

Opposite To Meloncholly

 Returne my joyes, and hither bring
A tongue not made to speake but sing,
A jolly spleene, an inward feast,
A causelesse laugh without a jest,
A face which gladnesse doth anoynt,
An arm that springs out of his joynt,
A sprightfull gate that leaves no print,
And makes a feather of a flint,
A heart that's lighter than the ayre,
An eye still dancing in his spheare,
Strong mirth which nothing can controule,
A body nimbler than the soule,
Free wandring thoughts not tyde to muse
Which thinke on all things, nothing choose,
Which ere we see them come are gone;
These life itselfe doth feede upon.

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 His Lady Denys

 Denys hath merited no slender praise,
In that She well supplied the Formers daies.
Conceive how Good she was, whose very worst Unto her Knight was This, that She dyed First.

Written by William Strode |

On Chloris Walking in the Snow

 I saw fair Chloris walk alone,
Whilst feather'd rain came softly down,
And Jove descended from his tower
To court her in a silver shower.
The wanton snow flew on her breast Like little birds unto their nest; But overcome with whiteness there, For grief it thaw'd into a tear; Thence falling on her garment's hem, To deck her, froze into a gem.

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.

Written by William Strode |

On A Watch Made By A Blacksmith

 A Vulcan and a Venus seldom part.
A blacksmith never us'd to filinge art Beyond a lock and key, for Venus' sake Hath cut a watch soe small that sence will ake In searching every wire, and subtile sphere Which his industrious skill hath order'd theire: It scarce outswells a nut, and is soe light A Ladies eare might well indure the weight.
Twas for a Mistrisse: pitty not his owne, And yet not pitty when her worth is knowne, Or els his love that ownes her: Either's name Is carv'd within the plates: the witty frame Hath made their letters kiss for them, while they Have like the watch one pulse, one sympathy.