I am the faythfull deputy
Unto your fading memory.
Your Index long in search doth hold;
Your folded wrinkles make books olde:
But I the Scripture open plaine,
And what you heard soone teach againe:
By mee the Welchman well may bring
Himselfe to Heaven in a string.
More verses by William Strode
- On His Lady Denys
- Keepe On Your Maske (Version For His Mistress)
- On His Lady Marie
- Love Compared To A Game Of Tables
- On The Death Of The Right Honourable The Lord Viscount Bayning