WILLIAM STRODE
The wanton snow flew to her breast, Like pretty birds into their nest, But, overcome with whiteness there, For grief it thaw'd into a tear*
Thence falling on her garments' hem, To deck her, froze into a gem.
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��405 In Commendation of Music
rHEN 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 heartstring shake Philosophy Can scarce deny The soul consists of harmony.
When unto heavenly joy we feign Whate'er the soul affecteth most, Which only thus we can explain By music of the winged host,
Whose lays we think
Make stars to wink,
Philosophy
Can scarce deny Our souls consist of harmony.
O lull me, lull me, charming air, My senses rock with wonder sweet; Like snow on wool thy fallings are, Soft, like a spirit's, are thy feet.
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