A Girdle (William Strode Poems)
Whene'er the wast makes too much hast, That hast againe makes too much wast. I here stand keeper while 'tis ...
Whene'er the wast makes too much hast, That hast againe makes too much wast. I here stand keeper while 'tis ...
Could any shewe where Plynyes people dwell Whose head stands in their breast; who cannot tell A smoothing lye because ...
Come, come, I faint: thy heavy stay Doubles each houre of the day: The winged hast of nimble love Makes ...
I know no paynt of poetry Can mend such colourd Imag'ry In sullen inke: yet Fayrford, I May relish thy ...
Looke how the russet morne exceeds the night, How sleekest Jett yields to the di'monds light, So farr the glory ...
No marvell if the Sunne's bright eye Shower downe hott flames; that qualitie Still waytes on light; but when wee ...
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