Kisses
My love and I for kisses played:
She would keep stakes—I was content;
But when I won, she would be paid;
This made me ask her what she meant.
“Pray since I see,” quoth she, “your wrangling vein,
Take your own kisses; give me mine again.”
More poems by William Strode
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Chloris in the Snow
I saw fair Chloris walk alone,
When feather'd rain came softly down,
As Jove descending from his Tower …