|
| Another Fiat, shall have no more day. |
| So violent, yet long these furies bee, |
| That though thine absence sterve me,* 'I wish not thee. |
|
| THE CALME. |
|
| Our storme is past, and that storms tyrannous rage, |
| A stupid calme, but nothing it,* doth swage. |
| The fable is inverted, and farre more |
| A blocke afflicts, now, then a storke before. |
| Stormes chafe, and soone weare out themselves, or us;* |
| In calmes, Heaven laughs to see us languish thus. |
| As steady'as* I can wish, that my thoughts were, |
| Smooth as thy mistresse glasse, or what shines there, |
| The sea is now. And,* as the Iles which wee |
| Seeke, when wee can move, our ships rooted bee. |
| As water did in stormes, now pitch runs out |
| As lead, when a fir'd Church becomes one spout. |
| And all our beauty, and our trimme, decayes, |
| Like courts removing, or like ended playes. |
| The fighting place now seamens ragges supply; |
| And all the tackling is a frippery. |
| No use of lanthornes; and in one place lay |
| Feathers and dust, to day and yesterday. |
| Earths hollownesses, which the worlds lungs are, |
| Have no more winde then the upper valt of aire.
|
[CW: We] |