Author: William Strode

Though Death to good men be the greatest boone, I dare not think this Lady dyde so soone. She should […]

Like to the rowling of an eye, Or like a starre shott from the skye, Or like a hand upon […]

Hence, hence, all you vaine delights, As short as are the nights Wherein you spend your folly: Ther’s nought in […]

As sinn makes gross the soule and thickens it To fleshy dulness, so the spotless white Of virgin pureness made […]

What Angel stirrs this happy Well, Some Muse from thence come shew’t me, One of those naked Graces tell That […]

Behold this little volume here inrolde: ‘Tis the Almighty’s present to the world: Hearken earth’s earth; each sencelesse thing can […]

See how the Rainbow in the skie Seems gaudy through the Suns bright eye; Harke how an Eccho answere makes, […]

Hath Christmas furr’d your Chimneys, Or have the maides neglected, Doe Fire-balls droppe from your Chimney’s toppe, The Pidgin is […]

O tell mee, tell, thou god of wynde, In all thy cavernes canst thou finde A vapor, fume, a gale […]

The Sheriffe of Oxford late is grown so wise As to repreive his Beere till next assize: Alas! twas not […]