William Strode

Though Death to good men be the greatest boone, I dare not think this Lady dyde so soone. She should have livde for others: Poor mens want Should make her stande, though she herselfe

Hence, hence, all you vaine delights, As short as are the nights Wherein you spend your folly: Ther’s nought in this life sweete, If men were wise to see’te But only Melancholly: O sweetest

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,

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

O tell mee, tell, thou god of wynde, In all thy cavernes canst thou finde A vapor, fume, a gale or blast Like to a sigh which love doth cast? Can any whirlwynde in

Lett her parents then confesse That they beleeve her happinesse, Which now they question. Thinke as you Lent her the world, Heaven lent her you: And is it just then to complayne When each

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

Now the declining sun ‘gan downwards bend From higher heavens, and from his locks did send A milder flame, when near to Tiber’s flow A lutinist allay’d his careful woe With sounding charms, and

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.

Dawson the Butler’s dead: Although I think Poets were ne’er infusde with single drinke Ile spend a farthing muse; some watry verse Will serve the turne to cast upon his hearse; If any cannot

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

Preferment, like a Game at bowles, To feede our hope with diverse play Heer quick it runnes, there soft it rowles: The Betters make and shew the way. As upper ground, so great Allies

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?

When Orpheus sweetly did complayne Upon his lute with heavy strayne How his Euridice was slayne, The trees to heare Obtayn’d an eare, And after left it off againe. At every stroake and every

Stay lusty blood! where canst thou seeke So blest a seat as in her cheeke? How dar’st thou from her face retire Whose beauty doth command desire? But if thou wilt not stay, then

I hold as fayth What Rome’s Church sayth Where the King’s head, That flock’s misled Where th’ Altar’s drest That People’s blest Who shuns the Masse Hee’s but an Asse Who Charity preach They

As I out of a casement sent Mine eyes as wand’ring as my thought, Upon no certayne object bent, But only what occasion brought, A sight surpriz’d my hart at last, Nor knewe I

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

Keepe on your maske and hide your eye For in beholding you I dye. Your fatall beauty Gorgon-like Dead with astonishment doth strike. Your piercing eyes that now I see Are worse than Basilisks

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here is paper, pen, and inke, That your heart and seale may sinke Into such markes as may expresse A Soule much blest in heavinesse. May your paper seeme as fayre As yourselfe when

Happy Grave, thou dost enshrine That which makes thee a rich mine: Remember yet, ’tis but a loane; And wee must have it back, Her owne, The very same; Marke mee, the same: Thou

What are thy gaines, O death, if one man ly Stretch’d in a bed of clay, whose charity Doth hereby get occasion to redeeme Thousands out of the grave: though cold hee seeme He

Be silent you still musique of the Sphears, And every sense make haste to be all ears, And give devout attention to her aires, To which the Gods doe listen as to prayers Of

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.

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.

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:

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

What mystery was this; that I should finde My blood in kissing you to stay behinde? ‘Twas not for want of color that requirde My blood for paynt: No dye could be desirde On

What thing is that, nor felt nor seene Till it bee given? a present for a Queene: A fine conceite to give and take the like: The giver yet is farther for to seeke;

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

These dolphins twisting each on either side For joy leapt upp, and gazing there abide; And whereas other waters fish doe bring, Here from the fishes doe the waters spring, Who think it is

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

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

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