Goe and count her better houres;
They more happie are than ours.
The day that gives her any blisse
Make it as long againe as tis:
The houre shee smiles in lett it bee
By thy art increas'd to three:
But if shee frowne on thee or mee
Know night is made by her not thee:
Bee swift in such an houre, and soon
Make it night though it bee noone:
Obey her tymes, who is the free
Fayre sun that governes thee and mee
More verses by William Strode
- An Epitaph On Sr John Walter, Lord Cheife Baron
- A Purse-String
- Consolatorium, Ad Parentes
- Keepe On Your Maske And Hide Your Eye
- A New Year's Gift