 | The Works of William Fowler
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LXIII.
Vpon this firthe, as on the sees of love,
my beaten bark, with waltring wawes tost sore,
to the bright fyre her wandring course dothe move,
imagining I see the on the schore:
thy words, the Mapp and cairt is, O my glore,
thy eyes, the ey attractiue calamite,
thy winks, the tuinkling stars which I adore,
the pointed compass ar thy proper feite,
the rudder is my reason vndiscreit,
the airs my greiffs, the reas my piteous plaint,
the ancar doubt, the suits sowre sueit,
the schip my half deade harte through mad Intent,
the see my teares, my sighs the whirling wynde,
which maks me seik the heaven I can not fynd.
| The Works of William Fowler
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