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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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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.

More great poems below...

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 |

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 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 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 |

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 |

The Chimney-Sweepers Song

 Hath Christmas furr'd your Chimneys,
Or have the maides neglected,
Doe Fire-balls droppe from your Chimney's toppe,
The Pidgin is respected,
Looke up with feare and horror,
O how my mistresse wonders!
The streete doth crie, the newes doth flie,
The boyes they thinke it thunders.
Then up I rush with my pole and brush, I scowre the chimney's Jacket, I make it shine as bright as mine, When I have rub'd and rak'd it.
Take heed, ten groates you'le forfeit, The Maior will not have under, In vain is dung, so is your gun When brickes doe flie asunder: Let not each faggot fright ye, When threepence will me call in, The Bishopps foote is not worse than soote If ever it should fall in.
Up will I rush, etc.
The sent, the smoake ne're hurts me, The dust is never minded, Mine Eyes are glasse men sweare as I passe Or else I had bin blinded, For in the midst of Chimneys I laugh, I sing, I hollow, I chant my layes in Vulcan's praise As merry as the swallow.
Still up I rush, etc.
With Engines and devices I scale the proudest chimney, The Prince's throne to mine alone Gives place, the Starrs I climb ny.
I scorne all men beneath me While there I stand a scowring, All they below looke like a Crow, Or men on Paules a tow'ring.
Then downe I rush, etc.
And as I downeward rumble What thinke you is my lott then? A good neat's tongue in the inside hung, The maide hath it forgotten: If e're the wanton mingled My inke with soote I wist not, Howere the neate and harmless cheate Is worth a penny, is't not? Still doe I rush, etc.
Then cloth'd in soote and ashes I catch the maides that hast out, Whos'ere I meete with smutt I greete, And pounse their lipps and wastcote: But on the Sunday morning I looke not like a widgin, Soe brave I stand with a point in my bande Men ask if I be Pidgin.
Yet will I rush, etc.
Mulsacke I dare encounter For all his horne and feather, Ile lay him a crowne Ile roare him downe, I thinke heale ne'er come hether.
The Boyes that climbe like Crickets And steale my trade, Ile strippe them, By priviledge I, growne Chimney hy, Soone out of towne will whippe them.
Then will I rush, etc.

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 A Register For A Bible

 I am the faythfull deputy
Unto your fading memory.
Your Index long in search doth hold; Your folded wrinkles make books olde: But I the Scripture open plaine, And what you heard soone teach againe: By mee the Welchman well may bring Himselfe to Heaven in a string.

Written 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.

Written 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

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.