William Strode Poems

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The first day of this month the last hath bin
To that deare soule. March never did come in
So lyonlike as now: our lives are made
As fickle as the weather or the shade.
March dust growes plenty now, while wasting fate
Strike heare to dust, well worth the proverbs rate.
I could be angry with the fates that they
This man of men so soone have stole away.
Meane they a kingdome to undoe, or make
The universe a Cripple while they take
From us so cheife a part, whose art knew how
To make a man a man, nor would allow
Nature an Heteroclite still to remaine
Irregular, but with a jugling paine
Deceive men of their greife, and make them know
That he could cure more than ere chance or foe
Dare to instring. Death now growes politique:
While Otton liv'd herselfe was weake and sicke
For want of food, therefore at him she aimde
Who bar'd her of her purpose. All is maimde,
All's out of joint, for in this fatall crosse
Behold Death's triumph and our fatall losse.

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