Biography of William Strode
Born in 1602, the only son of Philip Strode, who belonged to an old Devonshire family, he was born at Plympton, Devonshire. From an early age he showed studious tendencies and was sent to Westminster School and Oxford. While at the University he began to manifest his poetic talents,and generally distinguished himself, being elected in 1629 Public Orator. He took orders and, on Richard Corbet (q.v.) becoming Bishop of Oxford, became his chaplain. Later he was Rector of E. Bredenham, Norfolk, and of Badley, Northants, and Canon of Christ Church.
On the outbreak of the Civil War he attached himself warmly to the cause of the King. He was a High Churchman, and had a reputation as "a witty and sententious preacher, an exquisite orator, and an eminent poet." Until the recovery of his poems by Mr. B. Dobell, he had fallen into absolute oblivion. As a poet he shines most in lyrics and elegies. With much of the artificiality of his age he shows gracefulness, a feeling for the country, and occasional gleams of tenderness. His play, The Floating Island, a political allegory, was produced in 1633 and played before the Court then on a visit to Oxford, where it was a subject of complaint that it had more moralising than amusement. Mr. Dobell, edited a book of his poems (The Poetical Works of William Strode) in 1907.
This page is based on the copyrighted Wikipedia William Strode; it is used under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. You may redistribute it, verbatim or modified, providing that you comply with the terms of the CC-BY-SA.
William Strode Poems
A Riddle: On A Kiss
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;
A Translation Of The Nightingale Out Of ...
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
In Commendation Of Musick
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;
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:
On The Picture Of Two Dolphins In A Foun...
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,
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:
These veines are nature's nett, These cords by art are sett.
A Paralell Between Bowling And Prefermen...
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.
A Lover To His Mistress
Ile tell you how the Rose did first grow redde, And whence the Lilly whitenesse borrowed: You blusht, and then the Rose with redde was dight: The Lillies kissde your hands, and so came white:
An Epitaph On Mr. Fishborne The Great Lo...
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
For A Gentleman, Who, Kissinge His Frien...
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
A New Year's Gift
We are prevented; you whose Presence is A Publick New-yeares gift, a Common bliss To all that Love or Feare, give no man leave To vie a Gift but first he shall receave;
Keepe On Your Maske And Hide Your Eye
Keepe on your maske, and hide your eye, For with beholding you I dye: Your fatall beauty, Gorgon-like, Dead with astonishment will strike;
We hugg, imprison, hang, and save, This foe, this friend, our Lord, our slave.
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.