WILLIAM STRODE,

Was born about 1600, and died in 1644. He became D. D. and canon of Christ Church, having served the offices of proctor and public orator to the University, and had the reputation of being a good preacher, an exquisite orator, and an eminent poet.

The following specimens are extracted from a miscellany called "Wit restored," 1658, duodecimo,

ANSWER TO THE LOVER'S MELANCHOLY."

[Vide p. 48 of this volume.]

RETURN, my joys! and hither bring
A tongue not made to speak, but sing;
A jolly spleen, an inward feast,
A causeless laugh without a jest;
A face which gladness doth anoint,
An arm, for joy, flung out of joint;
A spriteful gait that leaves no print,
And makes a feather of a flint;
A heart that's lighter than the air,
An eye still dancing in its sphere;

Strong mirth which nothing shall controul,
A body nimbler than a soul;

Free wandering thoughts, not tied to muse,
Which, thinking all things, nothing chuse,
Which, ere we see them come, are gone;
These life itself doth feed upon.

Then take no care, but only to be jolly,
To be more wretched than we must, is folly.

[The following has been attributed to Strode, but I know not on what authority.]

ON MUSIC.

WHEN whispering strains do softly steal

With creeping passion through the heart,

And when at every touch we feel

Our pulses beat, and bear a part;

When threads can make

A heart-string quake;
Philosophy

Can scarce deny,

The soul consists of harmony.

Oh, lull me, lull me, charming air,

My senses rock'd with wonder sweet! Like snow on wool thy fallings are, Soft like a spirit are thy feet!

Grief who need fear

That hath an ear?

Down let him lie,

And slumbering die,

And change his soul for harmony.

ROBERT GOMERSALL,

Was born in 1600, and sent to Christ Church, Oxford, 1614, where he was afterwards made a student. Having taken orders, he became a celebrated preacher, and published several sermons. (Vide Wood's Ath. Vol. I. p. 598.) He wrote "the Levite's Revenge, containing Poetical Medita❝tions upon the 19th and 20th chapters of Judges" (a sort of heroic poem), 1628: the "Tragedy of Sforza," and a few poems, 1633.

SONG.

[From Sforza.]

How I laugh at their fond wish

Whose desire

Aims no higher

Than the baits of Midas' dish!

What is gold but yellow dirt?

Which th' unkind

Heavens refin'd

When they made us love our hurt.

Would to heaven that I might steep

My faint eyes

In the wise,

In the gentle dew of sleep!

Whose effects do pose us so,

That we deem

It does seem

Both death's brother and his foe.

This does always with us keep;

And, being dead,

That's not fled:
Death is but a longer sleep.

[Abridged from 60 lines.]

How we dally out our days!
How we seek a thousand ways
To find death, the which if none
We sought out, would shew us one.

Never was there morning yet (Sweet as is the violet)