William Strode

(1602 - 1644 / England)

William Strode Poems

1. On Sir Thomas Savill Dying Of The Small Pox 1/1/2004
2. Jacke-On-Both-Sides 1/1/2004
3. Justification 1/1/2004
4. Love Compared To A Game Of Tables 1/1/2004
5. A Song On The Baths 1/1/2004
6. A Paralell Between Bowling And Preferment 1/1/2004
7. A Purse-String 1/1/2004
8. Her Epitaph 1/1/2004
9. On A Gentlewoman That Sung And Play'D Upon A Lute 1/1/2004
10. On A Gentlewoman's Blistred Lipp 1/1/2004
11. On A Gentlewoman's Watch That Wanted A Key 1/1/2004
12. Opposite To Meloncholly 1/1/2004
13. Keepe On Your Maske (Version For His Mistress) 1/1/2004
14. When Orpheus Sweetly Did Complayne 1/1/2004
15. An Epitaph On Sr John Walter, Lord Cheife Baron 1/1/2004
16. Melancholly 1/1/2004
17. On John Dawson, Butler Of C.C. 1/1/2004
18. On His Lady Denys 1/1/2004
19. On His Lady Marie 1/1/2004
20. On A Dissembler 1/1/2004
21. On The Death Of Dr. Lancton President Of Maudlin College 1/1/2004
22. A Watch Sent Home To Mrs. Eliz: King, Wrapt In Theis Verses 1/1/2004
23. A Watch-String 1/1/2004
24. On The Death Of Ladie Caesar 1/1/2004
25. The Chimney-Sweeper's Song 1/1/2004
26. To A Gentlewoman For A Friend 1/1/2004
27. To A Valentine 1/1/2004
28. A Strange Gentlewoman Passing By His Window 1/1/2004
29. A Superscription On Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia, Sent For A Token 1/1/2004
30. A Translation Of The Nightingale Out Of Strada 1/1/2004
31. To His Sister 1/1/2004
32. Of Death & Resurrection 1/1/2004
33. Chloris In The Snow 1/4/2003
34. On The Death Of Mr. James Van Otton 1/1/2004
35. On The Death Of The Right Honourable The Lord Viscount Bayning 1/1/2004
36. A Lover To His Mistress 1/1/2004
37. A Necklace 1/1/2004
38. On Chloris Standing By The Fire 1/1/2004
39. On Chloris Walking In The Snow 1/1/2004
40. On Fayrford Windowes 1/1/2004
Best Poem of William Strode


I hold as fayth
What Rome's Church sayth
Where the King's head,
That flock's misled
Where th' Altar's drest
That People's blest
Who shuns the Masse
Hee's but an Asse
Who Charity preach
They Heav'n soone reach
On Fayth t'rely,
'Tis heresy

What England's Church allows
My Conscience disavowes;
That Church can have no seame;
That holdes the Pope supreme;
There's service scarce divine;
With table, bread and wine;
Hee's Catholique and wise;
Who the Communion flyes;
That Church with schismes fraught;
Where only fayth is ...

Read the full of Jacke-On-Both-Sides

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.

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