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On the Queene.
THe world's a Sea of errors, all must passe,
Where shelues and sands the purling billow blinds:
Mens bodies are fraile barks of brittle glasse,
Which still are toss'd with aduerse tyds and winds:
Reason's the Pylot that the course directs,
Which makes the vessell (as its hieght) holde out,
Passions are partners, a still-iarring-rout:
Succumbing-thoughts are life-inuading leaks.
How built her body! such a voyage made;
How great her reason! which so rightly swayed;
How plyant passions! which so well obayd;
How dantlesse thoughts, vaine doubts durst nere inuade.
Her body, reason, passions, thoughts did gree,
To make her life the Art to saile this Sea.