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| The Calme. |
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| Ovr storme is past, and that storms tyrānous rage, |
| A stupid calme, but nothing it, doth swage. |
| The fable is inverted, and farre more |
| A block afflicts, now, then a storke before. |
| Stormes chafe, and soon weare our themselves, or us; |
| In calmes, Heaven laughs to see us languish thus. |
| As steady 'as I could wish my thoughts were, |
| Smooth as thy Mistresse glasse, or what shines there, |
| The sea is now, and, as the Iles which wee |
| Seeke, when we can move, our ships rooted bee. |
| As water did in stormes, now pitch runnes out: |
| As Lead, when a fir'd Church becomes one spout. |
| And all our beautie, 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 than the upper valt of ayre. |
| We can nor lost friends, nor sought foes recover, |
| But Meteor-like, save that we move not, hover. |
| Onely the Calenture together drawes |
| Deare friends, which meet dead in great fishes mawes, |
| And on the hatches, as on Altars lies |
| Each one, his owne Priest, and owne Sacrifice.
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[CW: Who] |