 | Poems |  |
39
Upon some alterations in my Mistresse, after my departure into France.
Oh gentle Love, doe not forsake the guide
Of my fraile Barke, on which the swelling tide
Of ruthlesse pride
Doth beat, and threaten wrack from every side.
Gulfes of disdaine, do gape to overwhelme
This boat, nigh sunke with griefe, whilst at the helme
Dispaire commands;
And round about, the shifting sands
Of faithlesse love, and false inconstancie,
With rocks of crueltie,
Stop up my passage to the neighbour Lands.
Of my fraile Barke, on which the swelling tide
Of ruthlesse pride
Doth beat, and threaten wrack from every side.
Gulfes of disdaine, do gape to overwhelme
This boat, nigh sunke with griefe, whilst at the helme
Dispaire commands;
And round about, the shifting sands
Of faithlesse love, and false inconstancie,
With rocks of crueltie,
Stop up my passage to the neighbour Lands.
My sighs have rays'd those winds, whose fury beares
My sayles er'e boord, and in their place spreads teares,
And from my teares
This sea is sprung, where naught but Death appeares,
A mystie cloud of anger, hides the light
Of my faire starre, and every where black night
Vsurpes the place
Of those bright rayes, which once did grace
My forth-bound Ship, but when it could no more
Behold the vanisht shore,
In the deep flood she drown'd her beamie face.
My sayles er'e boord, and in their place spreads teares,
And from my teares
This sea is sprung, where naught but Death appeares,
40
Of my faire starre, and every where black night
Vsurpes the place
Of those bright rayes, which once did grace
My forth-bound Ship, but when it could no more
Behold the vanisht shore,
In the deep flood she drown'd her beamie face.
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