William Strode

Whene’er the wast makes too much hast, That hast againe makes too much wast.

Here silken twynes, there locks you see— Now tell me which the softer bee?

This keepes my hands From Cupid’s bands.

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 …

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 …

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,