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 shee) your wrangling vayne,
Take your owne kisses, give me myne againe.
More verses by William Strode
- On A Gentlewoman That Had Had The Small Poxe
- On A Dissembler
- On The Death Of Ladie Caesar
- On The Death Of Mrs. Mary Neudham
- Justification