There note they the ship's sicknesses, the mast
Shak'd with an ague, and the hold and waste
With a salt dropsy clogg'd, and our tacklings
Snapping, like too high-stretch'd treble strings.
And from our tatter'd sails rags drop down so,
As from one hang'd in chains a year ago.
Yea, even our ordnance, plac'd for our defence,
Strives to break loose, and 'scape away from thence.
Pumping hath tir'd our men, and what's the gain?
Seas into seas thrown we suck in again:
Hearing hath deaf'd our sailors, and if they
Knew how to hear, there's none knows what to say.
Compar'd to these storms, death is but a qualm,
Hell somewhat lightsome, the Bermuda's calm.
Darkness, Light's eldest brother, his birth-right
Claims o'er the world, and to Heav'n hath chased
light.
All things are one; and that one none can be,
Since all forms uniform deformity
Doth cover; so that we, except God say
Another fiat, shall have no more day,
So violent, yet long these furies be,
That though thine absence starve me, I wish not
OUR storm is past, and that storm's tyrannous rage. A stupid calm, but nothing it doth swage.
The fable is inverted, and far more
A block afflicts now, than a stork before.
Storms chafe, and soon wear out themselves or us; In calms, Heaven Pughs to see us languish thus. As steady as I could wish my thoughts were, Smooth as thy mistress' glass, or what shines there,
The sea is now, and as the isles which we
Seek, when we can move, our ships rooted be.
As water did in storms, now pitch runs out,
As lead, when a fir'd church becomes one spout;
And all our beauty and our trim decays,
Like courts removing, or like ending plays.
The fighting place now seamen's rage supply;
And all the tackling is a frippery.
No use of lanthorns; and in one place lay
Feathers and dust, to-day and yesterday.
Earth's hollowness, which the world's lungs are,
Have no more wind than the upper vault of air.
We can nor lost friends nor sought foes recover,
But, meteor-like, save that we move not, hover.
Only the calenture together draws
Dear friends, which meet dead in great fish's maws;
And on the hatches, as on altars, lies
Each one, his own priest, and own sacrifice.
Who live, that miracle do multiply,
Where walkers in hot ovens do not die.
If in despite of these we swim, that hath
No more refreshing than a brimstone bath;
But from the sea into the ship we turn,
Like parboil'd wretches, on the coals to burn.
Like Bajazet encag'd, the shepherd's scoff;
Or like slack-sinew'd Sampson, his hair off,
Languish our ships. Now as a myriad
Of ants durst th' emperor's lov'd snake invade :
The crawling galleys, sea-gulls, finny chips,
Might brave our pinnaces, our bed-rid ships:
Whether a rotten state and hope of gain,
Or to disuse me from the queasy pain
Of being belov'd and loving, or the thirst
Of honour, or fair death, out-push'd me first;
I lose my end: for here as well as I
A desperate may live, and coward die.
Stag, dog, and all, which from or towards flies,
Is paid with life or prey, or doing dies:
Fate grudges us all, and doth subtily lay
A scourge, 'gainst which we all forgot to pray.
He that at sea prays for more wind, as well
Under the poles may beg cold, heat in Hell.
What are we then? How little more, alas!
Is man now, than, before he was, he was?
Nothing; for us, we are for nothing fit;
Chance or ourselves still disproportion it;
We have no power, no will, no sense: I lie ;
I should not then thus feel this misery.
Is not thy sacred hunger of science
Yet satisfy'd? is not thy brain's rich hive
Fulfill'd with honey, which thou dost derive
From the arts' spirits and their quintessence?
Then wean thyself at last, and thee withdraw
From Cambridge, thy old nurse; and, as the rest,
Here toughly chew and sturdily digest
Th' immense vast volumes of our common law;
And begin soon, lest my grief grieve thee too,
Which is that that, which I should have begun
In my youth's morning, now late must be done :
And I as giddy travellers must do,
Which stray or sleep all day, and having lost Light and strength, dark and tir'd must then ride post.
I CANNOT feel the tempest of a frown,
I may be rais'd by love, but not thrown down;
Though I can pity those sigh twice a day,
I hate that thing whispers itself away.
Yet since all love is feverish, who to trees
Doth talk, yet doth in love's cold ague freeze.
'Tis love, but with such fatal weakness made,
That it destroys itself with its own shade. [pain,
Who first look'd sad, griev'd, pin'd, and show'd his
Was he that first taught women to disdain.
As all things were but one nothing, dull and weak,
Until this raw disorder'd heap did break,
And several desires led parts away,
Water declin'd with earth, the air did stay,
Fire rose, and each from other but unty'd,
Themselves unprison'd were and purify'd:
So was love, first in vast confusion hid,
An unripe willingness which nothing did,
A thirst, an appetite which had no ease,
That found a want, but knew not what would please.
What pretty innocence in that day mov'd!
Man ignorantly walk'd by her he lov'd;
Both sigh'd and interchang'd a speaking eye,
Both trembled and were sick, yet knew not why.
That natural fearfulness, that struck man dumb,
Might well (those times consider'd) man become.
As all discoverers, whose first essay
Finds but the place; after, the nearest way:
So passion is to woman's love, about,
Nay, further off, than when we first set out.
It is not love, that sues or doth contend;
Love either conquers, or but meets a friend.
Man's better part consists of purer fire,
And finds itself allow'd, ere it desire.
Love is wise here, keeps home, gives reason sway, And journies not till it find summer-way.
A weather-beaten lover, but once known,
Is sport for every girl to practise on.
Who strives through woman's scorns women to
Is lost, and seeks his shadow to outgo;
It is mere sickness after one disdain,
Though he be call'd aloud, to look again.
Let others sin and grieve; one cunning sleight
Shall freeze my love to crystal in a night.
I can love first, and (if I win) love still;
And cannot be remov'd, unless she will.
It is her fault, if I unsure remain;
She only can untie, I bind again.
The honesties of love with ease I do,
But am no porter for a tedious woe.
BETWEEN SIR HENRY WOOTTON AND MR. DONNE.
Ir her disdain least change in you can move,
You do not love;
For when that hope gives fuel to the fire,
You sell desire.
Love is not love, but given free;
And so is mine, so should yours be.
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