William Strode Poems

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These veines are nature's nett,
These cords by art are sett.


If love himselfe flye here,
Love is intangled here.


Loe! on my neck this twist I bind,
For to hang him that steales my mynde:
Unless hee hang alive in chaynes
I hang and dye in lingring paynes.


Theis threads enjoy a double grace,
Both by the gemme and by the place

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