On The Death Of Mistress Mary Prideaux
Weep not because this childe hath dyed so yong,
But weepe because yourselves have livde so long:
Age is not fild by growth of time, for then
What old man lives to see th' estate of men?
Who sees the age of grande Methusalem?
Ten years make us as old as hundreds him.
Ripenesse is from ourselves: and then wee dye
When nature hath obteynde maturity.
Summer and winter fruits there bee, and all
Not at one time, but being ripe, must fall.
Death did not erre: your mourners are beguilde;
She dyed more like a mother than a childe.
Weigh the composure of her pretty partes:
Her gravity in childhood; all her artes
Of womanly behaviour; weigh her tongue
So wisely measurde, not too short nor long;
And to her youth adde some few riches more,
She tooke upp now what due was at threescore.
She livde seven years, our age's first degree;
Journeys at first time ended happy bee;
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poem by William Strode
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On The Death Of Mr. James Van Otton
The first day of this month the last hath bin
To that deare soule. March never did come in
So lyonlike as now: our lives are made
As fickle as the weather or the shade.
March dust growes plenty now, while wasting fate
Strike heare to dust, well worth the proverbs rate.
I could be angry with the fates that they
This man of men so soone have stole away.
Meane they a kingdome to undoe, or make
The universe a Cripple while they take
From us so cheife a part, whose art knew how
To make a man a man, nor would allow
Nature an Heteroclite still to remaine
Irregular, but with a jugling paine
Deceive men of their greife, and make them know
That he could cure more than ere chance or foe
Dare to instring. Death now growes politique:
While Otton liv'd herselfe was weake and sicke
For want of food, therefore at him she aimde
Who bar'd her of her purpose. All is maimde,
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poem by William Strode
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On John Dawson, Butler Of C.C.
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 weepe amongst us here
Take off his pott, and so squeeze out a tear:
Weepe, O his cheeses, weepe till yee bee good,
Yee that are dry or in the sun have stood;
In mossy coats und rusty liveries mourne,
Untill like him to ashes you shall turne:
Weep, O ye barrells, lett your drippings fall
In trickling streams: make waste more prodigal
Than when our drinke is badde, that John may flote
To Styx in beere, and lift upp Charon's boate
With wholesome waves. And as our conduits run
With clarett at a Coronation,
So lett our channells flow with single tiffe,
For John, I hope, is crownde: take off your whiffe,
Yee men of Rosemary: Now drinke off all,
Remembring 'tis a Butler's funeral:
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poem by William Strode
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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,
And Bodies turne to Soules all cleere,
All made for joy, noe payne.
Heate never was so sweetely mett
With moist as in this shower:
Old men are borne anew by swett
Of its restoring pow'r:
When crippl'd joynts we suppl'd see,
And second lives new come,
Who can deny this Font to be
The Bodies Christendome?
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poem by William Strode
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On A Gentlewoman's Blistred Lipp
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 eyes a pearle may seeme
Whose watery growth is not above
The thrifty seize that pearles doe love,
And doth so well become that part
That chance may seeme a secret art.
Doth any judge that face lesse fayre
Whose tender silke a mole doth beare?
Or will a diamond shine less cleare
If in the midst a soil appeare?
Or else that eye a finer nett
Whose glasse is ring'd about with jett?
Or is an apple thought more sweete
When hony specks and redde doe meete?
Then is the lipp made fayrer by
Such sweetness of deformitie.
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poem by William Strode
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On Westwell Downes
When Westwell Downes I gan to tread,
Where cleanely wynds the greene did sweepe,
Methought a landskipp there was spread,
Here a bush and there a sheepe:
The pleated wrinkles of the face
Of wave-swolne earth did lend such grace,
As shadowings in Imag'ry
Which both deceive and please the eye.
The sheepe sometymes did tread the maze
By often wynding in and in,
And sometymes round about they trace
Which milkmayds call a Fairie ring:
Such semicircles have they runne,
Such lynes acrosse so trymly spunne
That sheppeards learne whenere they please
A new Geometry with ease.
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poem by William Strode
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Remembrances Of The Renowned Knight, Sir Rowland Cotton, Of Bellaport In Shropshire, Concerning
Renowned Champion full of wrestling Art,
And made for victory in every part,
Whose active Limbes, oyl'd Tongue, and vertuous Mind,
Subdu'd both Foe and Friend, the Rough and Kind,
Yea, ev'n Thy-selfe, and thy Diseases too,
And all but Death (which won with much adoe
And shall at last be vanquish'd,) where are now
Those brawny Armes that crush'd the Dane? and how
Doe all thy Languages to Silence turne?
Babel's undifferenc'd by the speechlesse Urne.
What use of Wisedome now to mold the state
Where All are Equall? to appease debate
Where All doe sleepe? sowre dangers to fore-fend
When Spite hath done her worst and dangers end?
Had Death a Body, like the Dane's or thine,
Th' adst beene Her death; if humane Eares like mine,
Thy tongues had charm'd them; if a heart to love,
Each quality of thine a dart might prove.
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poem by William Strode
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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 cracke breaks off some years.
Heere tis not so: full distance heere
Sunders the cradle from the beere.
A fellow-traveller he hath beene
So long with Time: so worne to skinne,
That were hee not just now bereft,
His Body first his soule had left,
Threescore and tenne is Nature's date,
Our journey when wee come in late.
Beyond that time the overplus
Was granted not to him, but us.
For his own sake the Sun nere stood,
But only for the peoples good.
Even so his breath held out by aire
Which poore men uttered in theyr prayer:
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poem by William Strode
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On A Gentlewoman's 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
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poem by William Strode
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For A Gentleman, Who, Kissinge His Friend At His Departure Left A Signe Of Blood On Her
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 that fayre silke, where scarlett were a spott
And where the juice of lillies but a blotte.
'Twas not the signe of murther that did taynt
The harmlesse beauty of so pure a saynt:
Yes, of a loving murther, which rough steele
Could never worke; such as we joy to feele:
Wherby the ravisht soule though dying lives,
Since life and death the selfsame object gives.
If at the presence of a murtherer
The wound will bleede and tell the cause is ther,
A touch will doe much more, and thus my heart,
When secretly it felt the killing darte,
Shew'd it in blood: which yet doth more complayne
Because it cannot be so touched againe.
This wounded heart, to shew its love most true,
Sent forth a droppe and writ its minde on you.
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poem by William Strode
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