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William Strode Short Poems

Famous Short William Strode Poems. Short poetry by famous poet William Strode. A collection of the all-time best William Strode short poems


by William Strode
 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.



by William Strode
 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.

by William Strode
 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.

by William Strode
 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.

by William Strode
 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.



by William Strode
 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.

by William Strode
 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

by William Strode
 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

by William Strode
 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.

by William Strode
 What is our life? a play of passion;
Our mirth the musick of division:
Our mother's wombes the tyring houses bee
Where wee are drest for tyme's short comedy:
The earth's the stage, heaven the spectator is,
Who marketh still whoere doth act amisse:
Our graves that hide us from the burning sunne
Are but drawne curtaynes when the play is done

by William Strode
 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.

by William Strode
 See how the Rainbow in the skie
Seems gaudy through the Suns bright eye;
Harke how an Eccho answere makes,
Feele how a board is smooth'd with waxe,
Smell how a glove putts on perfume,
Tast how theyr sweetnesse pills assume:
So by imputed Justice, Clay
Seemes faire, well spoke, smooth, sweet, each way.
The eye doth gaze on robes appearing, The prompted Eccho takes our hearing, The board our touch, the sent our smell, The pill our tast: Man, God as well.

by William Strode
 Whatever in Philoclea the fair
Or the discreet Pamela figur'd are,
Change but the name the virtues are your owne,
And for a fiction there a truth is knowne:
If any service here perform'd you see,
If duty and affection paynted bee
Within these leaves: may you be pleas'd to know
They only shadow what I truly owe
To your desart: thus I a glasse have sent
Which both myself and you doth represent.

by William Strode
 Whene'er the wast makes too much hast,
That hast againe makes too much wast.
I here stand keeper while 'tis light, 'Tis theft to enter when 'tis night.
This girdle doth the wast embrace To keepe all others from that place.
This circle here is drawne about To keepe all tempting spiritts out.
Whoe'er the girdle doth undoe Hee quite undoes the owner too

by William Strode
 'Tis vayne to add a ring or gemme,
Your eare itselfe outpasseth them.
When idle words are passing here, I warne and pull you by the eare.
This silken chayne stands wayting here For golden tongues to tye on there.
Here silken twynes, there locks you see-- Now tell me which the softer bee?

by William Strode
 I SAW fair Chloris walk alone, 
When feather'd rain came softly down, 
As Jove descending from his Tower 
To court her in a silver shower: 
The wanton snow flew to her breast, 
Like pretty birds into their nest, 
But, overcome with whiteness there, 
For grief it thaw'd into a tear: 
 Thence falling on her garments' hem, 
 To deck her, froze into a gem.

by William Strode
 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.

by William Strode
 Goe and count her better houres;
They more happie are than ours.
The day that gives her any blisse Make it as long againe as tis: The houre shee smiles in lett it bee By thy art increas'd to three: But if shee frowne on thee or mee Know night is made by her not thee: Bee swift in such an houre, and soon Make it night though it bee noone: Obey her tymes, who is the free Fayre sun that governes thee and mee

by William Strode
 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.

by William Strode
 My love and I for kisses play'd,
Shee would keepe stake, I was content,
But when I wonne shee would be paid;
This made mee aske her what she meant.
Pray, since I see (quoth shee) your wrangling vayne, Take your owne kisses, give me myne againe.

by William Strode
 O sing a new song to the Lord,
Praise in the hight and deeper strayne;
Come beare your parts with one accord,
Which you in Heaven may sing againe.
Yee elders all, and all the crowd That in white robes apparrell'd stands Like Saints on earth, sing out aloud, Think now the palmes are in your hands.
Yee living pipes, whose stormy layes Have borrowed breath to praise our king, A well-tun'd thunder loudly raise: All that have breath his honor sing.

by William Strode
 The Sheriffe of Oxford late is grown so wise
As to repreive his Beere till next assize:
Alas! twas not so quick, twas not so heady,
The Jury sate and found it dead already.

by William Strode
 Faire Valentine, since once your welcome hand
Did cull mee out wrapt in a paper band,
Vouchsafe the same hand still, to shew thereby
That Fortune did your will no injury:
What though a knife I give, your beauty's charme
Will keepe the edge from doing any harme:
Wool deads the sternest blade; and will not such
A weake edge turne, meeting a softer touch?

by William Strode
 Love is a game at tables where the dye
Of mayds affections doth by fancie fly:
If once you catch their fancie in a blott
It's tenne to one if then you enter not:
You being a gamester then may boldly venter,
And if you finde the point lye open enter:
But marke them well, for by false playing then,
Doe what you can they will be bearing men.

by William Strode
 More Cottons yet? O let not envious Fate
Attempt the Ruine of our growing State.
O had it spar'd Sir Rowland, then might wee Have almost spar'd Sir Robert's Library.
His Life and th' others bookes taught but the same; Death kils us twice in blotting twice one Name.
Give Him, and take those Reliques with consent; Sir Rowland was a Living Monument