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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 | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

An Epitaph On Sr John Walter Lord Cheife Baron

 Farewell Example, Living Rule farewell;
Whose practise shew'd goodness was possible,
Who reach'd the full outstretch'd perfection
Of Man, of Lawyer, and of Christian.
Suppose a Man more streight than Reason is, Whose grounded Habit could not tread amisse Though Reason slepd; a Man who still esteem'd His wife his Bone; who still his children deem'd His Limbes and future Selfe; Servants trayn'd friends; Lov'd his Familiars for Themselves not ends: Soe wise and Provident that dayes orepast He ne're wish'd backe again; by whose forecast Time's Locke, Time's Baldness, Future Time were one, Since nought could mende nor marre one Action, That man was He.
Suppose an Advocate In whose all-conquering tong true right was Fate; That could not pleade among the grounded throng Wrong Causes right nor rightfull causes wrong, But made the burnish'd Truth to shine more bright Than could the witnesses or Act in sight.
Who did soe breifely, soe perspicuously Untie the knots of darke perplexity That words appear'd like thoughts, and might derive To dull Eares Knowledge most Intuitive.
A Judge soe weigh'd that Freinde and one of Us Were heard like Titius and Sempronius.
All Eare, no Eie, noe Hande; oft being par'd The Eies Affections and the Hands Reward.
Whose Barre and Conscience were but two in Name, Sentence and Closet-Censure still the Same: That Advocate, that judge was He.
Suppose A sound and setled Christian, not like those That stande by fitts, but of that Sanctity As by Repentence might scarce better'd be: Whose Life was like his latest Houre, whose way Outwent the Journey's Ende where others stay: Who slighted not the Gospel for his Lawe, But lov'd the Church more than the Bench, and sawe That all his Righteousnes had yet neede fee One Advocate beyond himselfe.
'Twas He.
To this Good Man, Judge, Christian, now is given Faire Memory, noe Judgment, and blest Heaven.
Written by William Strode | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

On Chloris Standing By The Fire

 Faire Chloris, standing by the Fire,
An amorous coale with hot desire
Leapt on her breast, but could not melt
The chaste snow there--which when it felt
For shame it blusht; and then it died
There where resistance did abide,
And lest she should take it unkind
Repentant ashes left behind.
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