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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 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

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 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.
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.


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 A Gentlewomans Watch That Wanted A Key

 Thou pretty heav'n whose great and lesser spheares
With constant wheelings measure hours and yeares
Soe faithfully that thou couldst solve the doubt
Of erring Time if Nature should be out,
Where's thy intelligence? thy Soule? the Key
That gives thee Life and Motion? must thou stay
Thus cramp'd with rusty Sloth? and shall each wheele
Disorganis'd confess it is but steele?
Art's Living Creature, is thy thread all spent?
Thy Pulse quite dead? hath Time a period sent
To his owne Sister? slaine his Eeven Match?
That when we looke 'tis doomesday by the Watch.
Prithee sweete Watch be marri'd, joyne thy side Unto an active key, and then abide A frequent screwing, till successively More and more Time beget Eternity.
Knowe as a Woman never lock'd and key'd Once in twice twelve growes faint and is downe-weighed From Nature's full intent, and cannot live Beyond her natural span, unlesse Man give His vanish'd bone a quick'ning, unless Man Doe adde an Ell unto her now shrunk span, Unless he lengthen out posteritie Her secret orbes will faint and She all die; Soe will thy wheeles decay, and finde their date Unless a Key their houres doe propagate: Then gett a key and live; my life Ile gage Each minute then shall grow into an age; Then lett thy Mistresse looking smile on Thee, And say 'tis time my Watch and I agree.
Written by William Strode | Create an image from this poem

In Commendation Of Musick

 When whispering straynes doe softly steale
With creeping passion through the hart,
And when at every touch wee feele
Our pulses beate and beare a part;
When thredds can make
A hartstring shake
Philosophie
Can scarce deny
The soule consists of harmony.
When unto heavenly joy wee feyne Whatere the soule affecteth most, Which onely thus wee can explayne By musick of the winged hoast, Whose layes wee think Make starres to winke, Philosophie Can scarce deny Our soules consist of harmony.
O lull mee, lull mee, charming ayre, My senses rock with wonder sweete; Like snowe on wooll thy fallings are, Soft, like a spiritts, are thy feete: Greife who need feare That hath an eare? Down lett him lye And slumbring dye, And change his soule for harmony.
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