 | Poems |  |
37
To her in absence.
A SHIP.
Tost in a troubled sea of griefes, I sloateFarre from the shore, in a storme-beaten boat,
Where my sad thoughts doe (like the compasse) show
The severall points from which crosse winds doe blow.
My heart doth like the needle toucht with love
Still fixt on you, point which way I would move.
You are the bright Pole-starre, which in the darke
Of this long absence, guides my wandring barke.
Love is the Pilot, but o're-come with feare
Of your displeasure, dares not homewards steare;
My fearefull hope hangs on my trembling sayle;
Nothing is wanting but a gentle gale,
Which pleasant breath must blow from your sweet lip,
Bid it but move, and quick as thought this Ship
Into your armes, which are my port, will flye
Where it for ever shall at Anchor lye.
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