William Strode (poet)

William Strode (c. 1602 – 10 March 1645) was an English poet, Doctor of Divinity and Public Orator of Oxford University, one of the Worthies of Devon of John Prince.

Quotes

Bertram Dobell, ed. The Poetical Works of William Strode (1907)

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 that springs out of his joynt,
A sprightfull gate that leaves no print,
And makes a feather of a flint,
A heart that’s lighter than the ayre,
An eye still dancing in his spheare,
Strong mirth which nothing can controule,
A body nimbler than the soule,
Free wandring thoughts not tyde to muse
Which thinke on all things, nothing choose,
Which ere we see them come are gone;
These life itselfe doth feede upon.
- "Opposite to Melancholy"

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.
The slender food upon the downe
Is allwayes even, allwayes bare,
Which neither spring nor winter’s frowne
Can ought improve or ought impayre:
    Such is the barren Eunuches chynne,
    Which thus doth evermore begynne
    With tender downe to be orecast
    Which never comes to haire at last.
Here and there twoe hilly crests
Amiddst them hug¢g a pleasant greene,
And these are like twoe swelling breasts
That close a tender fall betweene.
    Here would I sleepe, or read, or pray
    From early morne till flight of day:
    But harke! a sheepe-bell calls mee upp,
    Like Oxford colledge bells, to supp.
- "On Westwell Downes"

I know no paynt of poetry
Can mend such colourd Imag’ry
In sullen inke: yet Fayrford, I
May relish thy fayre memory.
   Such is the Ecchoes faynter sound,
Such is the light when sunne is drownd;
So did the fancy looke upon
The worke before it was begunne:
Yet when those shewes are out of sight
My weaker colours may delight.
   Those Images so faythfully
Report true feature to the eye
As you may thinke each picture was
Some visage in a looking-glasse;
Not a glasse-window face, unlesse
Such as Cheapside hath: where a presse
Of paynted gallants looking out
Bedecke the Casement round about:
But these have holy physnomy:
Each pane instructs the Laity
With silent eloquence: for here
Devotion leads the eye, not eare,
To note the catechising paynt,
Whose easy phrase doth so acquaint
Our sense with Gospell that the Creede
In sucha hand the weake may reade:
Such types even yet of vertue bee,
And Christ, as in a glasse wee see.
  Behold two turtles in one cage,
With such a lovely equipage,
As they who knew them long may doubt
Some yong ones have bin stollen out.
  When with a fishing rodde the clarke
Saint Peters draught of fish doth marke,
Such is the scale, the eye, the finne,
Youd thinke they strive and leape within;
But if the nett, which holds them breake,
Hee with his angle some would take.
  But would you walke a turne in Pauls?
Looke uppe; one little pane inroules
A fayrer temple: fling a stone
The Church is out o’ the windowes throwne.
  Consider, but not aske your eyes,
And ghosts at midday seeme to rise:
The Saynts there, striving to descend,
Are past the glasse, and downward bend.
  Looke there! The Divell! all would cry
Did they not see that Christ was by:
See where he suffers for thee: see
His body taken from the Tree:
Had ever death such life before?
The limber corps, besullyd ore
With meager palenesse, doth display
A middle state twixt Flesh and Clay:
His armes and leggs, his head and crowne,
Like a true Lambskinne dangling downe,
Who can forbeare, the Grave being nigh,
To bring fresh oyntment in his eye?
  The wondrous art hath equall fate,
Unfencd and yet unviolate:
The Puritans were sure deceivd,
And thought those shadowes movde and heavde,
So held from stoning Christ: the winde
And boystrous tempests were so kinde
As on his Image not to prey,
Whom both the winds and seas obey.
  At Momus wish bee not amazd;
For if each Christian heart were glazde
With such a window, then each breast
Might bee his owne Evangelist.
- "On Fayrford Windowes"

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 pious votaries; the which to heare
Tumult would be attentive, and would swear
To keep lesse noise at Nile, if there she sing,
Or with a happy touch grace but the string.
Among so many auditors, so many throng
Of Gods and men that presse to hear her songs,
O let me have an unespied room,
And die with such an anthem ore my tomb.
- "On a Gentlewoman that Sung and Play'd upon a Lute" in Parnassus Biceps (1656) and in Wits Interpreter (1655)
- Other readings: l. 9, ‘such throngs’ for ‘so many throngs’

I saw faire Cloris walke alone
Where feather’d rayne came softly downe,
And Jove descended from his tower
To court her in a silver shower;
The wanton snowe flewe to her breast
Like little birds into their nest,
And overcome with whiteness there
For griefe it thaw’d into a teare,
Thence falling on her garment’s hemme
For greife it freez’d into a gemme.
- "On a Gentlewoman walking in the Snowe" in W. Porter’s Madrigals and Airs (1632)
- Cp. other readings:
  [...]
  Which trickling down her garments hemme
  To deck her freezd into a gemme.
  —Parnassus Biceps (1656), p. 78
  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.
  —The Oxford Book of English Verse (1900), no. 393

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 she) your wrangling vayne,
Take your owne kisses, give me myne againe.'
- "Sonnett" in New Court Songs and Poems, by R.V. Gent. (1672)
- Cp. other readings:
  My Love and I, for kisses played.
  She would keep stakes. I was content.
  But when I won, She would be paid!
  This made me ask her, What She meant?
  'Nay, since I see,' quoth She, 'your wrangling vein;
  Take your own kisses! and I'll take mine again!'
  —E. Arber, ed. The Jonson Anthology: 1617–1637 A.D. (1899), p. 238

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;
The taker doth possesse nothing the more,
The giver hee hath nothing lesse in store:
And given once that nature hath it still,
You cannot keepe or leave it if you will:
The workmanshippe is counted very small,
The labour is esteemèd naught at all:
But to conclude, this gift is such indeede,
That, if some see’t twill make theyr hearts to bleede.
- A Riddle: On a Kiss"

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.
- "Justification"

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;
Yet take her stature with the age of man,
They well are fitted: both are but a span.
- "On the Pride of Mistress Mary Prideaux"

If Hercules tall stature might bee guest
But by his thumbe, wherby to make the rest
In due proportion; the best rule that I
Would choose to measure Venus’ beauty by
Should bee her legg and foot. If husbandmen
Measure theyr timber by the foot, why then
Not we our wives? Whether wee goe or stride
Those native compasses are seldome wide
Of telling true: the round and slender foot
Is a sure index, and a secrett note
Of hidden parts; and well this way may lead
Unto the closett of a maydenheade:
Here, Emblemes of our youth, we roses tye,
And here the garter, love’s deare mystery:
For want of beauty here the peacock’s pride
Letts fall her trayne, and fearing to bee spide
Shutts upp her paynted witnesses to lett
Those eyes from view which are but counterfett.
Who looks not if this part be good or evill
May meet with cloven feet and match the divell,
For this doth make the difference betweene
The more unhallowed creatures and the cleane,
Well may you judge her other stepps are lighte,
Her thoughts awry that doth not tread aright:
But then there’s true perfection when wee see
Those parts more absolute that hidden bee:
Nature nere layd a fayre foundation
For an unworthy frame to rest upon.
Lett others view the topp and limbes throughout,
The deeper knowledge is to know the roote:
And reading of the face the weakest know,
What beauty is; the learned looke below;
Who, looking there, doe all the rest, descrie
As in a poole the moon we use to spie:
Pardon (sweetehart) the pride of my desire
If but to kisse your toe it should aspire.
- "On a Good Legg and Foot"

Tread soft, for if you wake this Knight alone,
You raise an Hoast: Religions Champion,
His Cuntreys Staffe, Rights bold Distributer,
His Neighbours Guard, the Poor mans Almoner,
Who dyes with Works about him, as did He,
Shall rise attended thus triumphantly.
- "Epitaph on the Monument of Sir William Strode"

from Posies

This keepes my hands
From Cupid’s bands.
- "Bracelets"

Here silken twynes, there locks you see—
Now tell me which the softer bee?
- "An Eare-stringe"

Whene’er the wast makes too much hast,
That hast againe makes too much wast.
- "A Girdle"
- Modernised spelling:
  Whene’er the waist makes too much haste,
  That haste again makes too much waste.
  —The New Oxford Book of Seventeenth-Century Verse (1991), no. 438

External links

Wikipedia

Wikipedia has an article about:

William Strode (poet)