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With a salt dropsie clog'd, and all our Tacklinges [f. 43]
Snapping, like to high stretch'd treble stringes.
And from our tottered Sayles, Ragges dropp downe soe
As from one hang'd in Chaines a yeare agoe
Even our ordinance plac'd for our defence
Strive to breake loose, and scape awaie from thence.
Pumping hath ty'rd our Men, and what's the gayne?
Seas into Seas throwne, wee sucke in againe.
Hearing hath deaft our Saylors, and if they
Knewe how to heare, there's none knowes what to saye.
Compar'd to these Stormes, Death is but a Qualme,
Hell somewhat lightsome, and the Bermuda calme.
Darknes, (lights Elder Brother) his Byrthright
Claimes ore this world, and to Heaven hath chac'd light.
All thinges are One, and that One, none can bee,
Since all formes vniforme Deformitie
Doth cover, Soe that except God saie
Another fiat, wee shall haue noe more Daie.
Soe violent yet long these furies bee
That thoughe thine absence sterve Mee, I wish not Thee.
The Calme.
Our Storme is past, and that Stormes tyrannous rage
A stupid Calme, but nothing it doth swage.
The fable is inverted, and farr more

[CW: A.]