Poetical miscellany circa 1640 V.a.245

50v
On a good legg and a foote./
If hercules tall stature might be guest
But by his thumbe, whereby to make the rest
In due proportion, the best rule, that I
Would choose to measure Venus beauty by
Should be her legg, and foote yf husbandmen
Measure their tymber by the foote, why then
Not wee our wives, whether wee goe or stride,
Those native compasses are sildome wide
Of telling true: the round and slender foote
Is a sure Index and a secrett note
Of hidden partes and well this way may lead
Vnto the closett of a Mayden head:
here Emblemes of our youth wee roses tye,
And here the garter loves deare mistery:
ffor wante of beauty here the Peacockes pride
Lettes fall her trayne, and fearing to be spide
Shuttes vpp her paynted whitnes witnesses, to lett
Those eyes from view, which are but counterfett:
Who lookes not if this part be good or evill,
May meet with cloven feete and match the devill.
ffor this doeth make the difference betweene
The more vnhollowed creatures and the cleane:
Well may you iudge her other steppes are lighte,
her thoughtes awry that doeth not tread aright:
But then there's true perfection, when wee see
Those partes more absolute, that hidden bee:
Nature ne'r layd a faire foundation
ffor an vnworthy frame to rest thereon;
Lett others viewe the topp, and limbes throughout
The deeper knowledge is to knowe the roote:
And reading
51r
And reading of the face the weakest knowe,
What beauty is, the learned looke belowe;
Who looking there doe all the rest descrie
As in a poole the Moone wee vse to spie,
Pardon (sweetehart) the pride of my desire,

If but to kisse you

r

toe it should a spire./

William S.
To a freind./
Like to the hand, which hath byn vs'd to play
One lesson long, still runnes the vsuall way;
And waites not what the hearers bid it strike
But doeth presume by custome this will like:
So runne my thoughtes which are so perfect growne,
So well acquainted with my passion:
That now they dare prevent mee with their hast,
And ere I thinck to sigh, my sigh is past:
'Tis past and flowne to you, for you alone
Are all the obiect, that I thinck vpon,
And did not you supplie my soule with thought,
ffor want of accion it to none were brought:
What though our absent armes may not enfold
Reall embraces, yet wee firmely hold
Each other in possession: thus wee see
The Lord enioy his landes, where ere hee bee:
If Kinges possest no more, then where they satt,
What were they greater then a meane estate?
This makes me firmely yours, you firmely myne
That something more then bodies vs combyne./
William Stroud
On the death