To Mr C. B.| |
Thou, wch art I, (tis nothing to be so), [f. 24] |
Thou wch art still thy selfe, by these shalt know |
Part of or passage; and a hand or ey |
By Hilliard drawne, is worth a history |
By a worse painter made; And wthout pryde |
When by thy iudgment they are dignifyde |
My Lines are such; tis the preheminence |
Of frindship only to'impute excellence. |
England, to'whom we owe, what we be & haue |
Sad, yt her Sonnes did seeke a forreigne graue |
(for Fates or Fortunes drifts none can soothsay |
Honor & Misery haue one face & way) |
From out her pregnant intralls sigh'd a wind |
wch at th'aires middle marble roome did find |
Such Strong resistance, yt it selfe it threw |
Downward agayne; & so when it did view |
How in ye Port or fleete deare time did lese |
Withering Like prisoners wch ly but for fees, |
Mildly it kist or Sayles; & fresh & sweete |
As to a Stomack stervd, whose insides meete |
Meat comes, is come; & swole or Sayles, when wee |
So ioyd, as Sara her swelling ioy'd to see. |
But t'was but so kind as or Cuntrymen |
wch bring frinds one days way, & leaue thē then. |
Then, Like two mighty kings, wch dwelling farr |
asunder, meete against a third to warr |
The South, & West winds ioyn'd; & as they blew |
Waues like a rolling trench before them threw. |
Sooner then you read this Line, did ye gale |
Like Shott, not feard till felt, or Sayles assayle. |
And what at first was call'd a Gust, ye same |
Hath now a Stormes, anon a Tempests name. |
Ionas I pitty thee, & curse those men |
Who when the Storme rag'd most, did wake thee then. |
Sleepe is paynes easiest salue, and doth fullfill |
All Offices of death, except to kill. |