Iambic dimeter is not that easy to find, but luckily the spirit of experimentation in the Renaissance produced this:
 

                   *    /   | *   /
            WITH serving still
                  This I have won,  [/ * | */--with a trochaic substitution]
            For my goodwill
                  To be undone.

            And for redress
                  Of all my pain,
            Disdainfulness
                  I have again.

            And for reward
                  Of all my smart,
            Lo, thus unheard,
                  I must depart.

            Wherefore all ye
                  That after shall
            By fortune be,
                  As I am, thrall,

            Example take
                  What I have won,
            Thus for her sake
                  To be undone.
                            -- Sir Thomas Wyatt
 

William Blake's "The Fly" is an example of iambic dimeter, though many of the lines  (marked +) are headless. But enough are complete iambic dimeters to identify it as basically that.

                           +Little Fly,
                             Thy summer's play     [ * / | * /]
                             My thoughtless hand
                             Has brushed away.

                           +Am not I
                             A fly like thee?
                             Or art not thou
                             A man like me?

                           +For I dance
                             And drink, and sing,
                             Till some blind hand
                             Shall brush my wing.

The plethora of feminine rhymes and hypermetric syllables makes Swinburne's "Song of the Four Seasons" hardly similar to Blake's poem above, but the despite the abundant substitutions and extra syllables, it remains fundamentally iambic dimeter, except for the tetrameter last line.

                            Through fell and moorland,
                                  And salt-sea foreland,
                                  Our noisy norland
                                Resounds and rings;
                                  Waste waves thereunder
                                  Are blown in sunder,
                                  And winds make thunder
                                        With cloudwide wings;
                                  Sea-drift makes dimmer
                                  The beacon's glimmer;
                                  Nor sail nor swimmer
                                        Can try the tides;
                                  And snowdrifts thicken
                                  Where, when leaves quicken,
                            Under the heather the sundew hides.