William Strode
On The Death Of Ladie Caesar
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
Of Death & 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
Melancholly
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
On The Death Of Mrs. Mary Neudham
As sinn makes gross the soule and thickens it To fleshy dulness, so the spotless white Of virgin pureness made thy flesh as cleere As others soules: thou couldst not tarry heere All soule
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,
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
Justification
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
The Chimney-Sweeper's 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
A Song On A Sigh
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
Upon The Sherrifs Beere
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.
Consolatorium, Ad Parentes
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
On The Death Of Sir Tho: Peltham
Meerly for man’s death to mourne Were to repine that man was borne. When weake old age doth fall asleepe Twere foule ingratitude to weepe: Those threads alone should pull out tears Whose sodayne
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
Chloris in the Snow
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
A Translation Of The Nightingale Out Of Strada
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