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Pumping hath tyr'd our men, And what's the gayne? [236] |
Seas into Seas throwne wee suck in agayne. |
Hearing hath deaf'd our Saylers, and if they |
Knewe how to heare there's none knowes what to say |
Compard with these stormes death is but a qualme |
Hell somewhat lightsome, the Bermudas calme. |
Darknesse, Lights elder brother, his birthright |
Claymes o're the world, and to heauen hath chasd light |
All things are one, and that one none can bee |
Since all formes vniforme deformity |
Doth couer. So that wee, except God say |
Another Fiat, shall haue no more day |
So long, but* vyolent, these furyes bee |
That, though thy Absence sterue mee, I wishe not thee. |
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The Calme. |
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Our Storme is past, and that Stormes tyranous rage |
A stupid Calme, but nothing it, doth swage. |
The fable is inverted, and far more |
A block afficts now then a storke before. |
Stormes chafe, and soone weare out themselues or vs |
In Calmes, heauens laugh to see vs languish thus |
As steddy as I could wish my thoughts were |
Smooth as thy Mistresse glasse, or what shines there |
The Sea is now, and as those Isles (w.ch wee |
Seeke, when wee can moue) our Ships rooted bee |
As water did in stormes, now pitch runns out |
As Lead when a fyr'd Church becomes a Spout
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[CW: And___] |