Returne my joyes, and hither bring A tongue not made to speake but sing, A jolly spleene, an inward feast, A causelesse laugh without a jest, A face which gladnesse doth anoynt, An arm that springs out of his joynt, A sprightfull gate that leaves no print, And makes a feather of a flint, A heart that’s lighter than the ayre, An eye still dancing in his spheare, Strong mirth which nothing can controule, A body nimbler than the soule, Free wandring thoughts not tyde to muse Which thinke on all things, nothing choose, Which ere we see them come are gone; These life itselfe doth feede upon.
— WILLIAM STRODE (POET)