Poems, by J.D. VVith elegies on the authors death

THE STORME.

To M^r Christopher Brooke.

THou which art I, ('tis nothing to be soe) Thou which art still thy selfe, by these shalt know Part of our passage; And, a hand, or eye By Hilliard drawne, is worth an history, By a worse painter made; and (without pride) When by thy judgment they are dignifi'd, My lines are such. 'Tis the preheminence Of friendship onely to'impute excellence. England to whom we'owe, what we be, and have, Sad that her sonnes did seeke a forraine grave (For, Fates, or Fortunes drifts none can Southsay,

Honour and misery have one face and way.) From out her pregnant intrailes sigh'd a winde Which at th'ayres middle marble roome did finde Such strong resistance, that it selfe it threw Downeward againe; and so when it did view How in the port, our fleet deare time did leese, Withering like prisoners, which lye but for fees, Mildly it kist our sailes, and, fresh, and sweet, As, to a stomack sterv'd, whose insides meete, Meate comes, it came; and swole our sailes, when wee So joyd, as Sara' her swelling joy'd to see. But 'twas, but so kinde, as our countrimen, Which bring friends one dayes way, and leave them then. Then like two mighty Kings, which dwelling farre blew, Asunder, meet against a third to warre, The South and West winds joyn'd, and, as they blew, Waves like a rowling trench before them threw. Sooner then you read this line, did the gale, Like shot, not fear'd, till felt, our sailes assaile; And what at first was call'd a gust, the same Hath now a stormes, a non a tempests name. Ionas, I pitty thee, and curse those men, Who when the storm rag'd most, did wake thee then; Sleepe is paines easiest salue, and doth fullfill All offices of death, except to kill. But when I wakt, I saw, that I saw not. I, and the Sunne, which should teach mee'had forgot East, West, day, night, and I could onely say, If the world had lasted, now it had beene day. Thousands our noyses were, yet wee 'mongst all

Could none by his right name, but thunder call: Lightning was all our light, and it rain'd more Then if the Sunne had drunke the sea before; Some coffin'd in their cabbins lye, 'equally Griev'd that they are not dead, and yet must dye. And as sin-burd'ned soules from grave will creepe, At the last day, some forth their cabbins peepe: And tremblingly'aske what newes, and doe heare so, Like jealous husbands, what they would not know. Some sitting on the hatches, would seeme there, With hideous gazing to feare away feare. Then note they the ships sicknesses, the Mast Shak'd with this ague, and the Hold and Wast With a salt dropsie clog'd, and all our tacklings Snapping, like too-high-stretched treble strings. And from our totterd sailes, ragges drop downe so, As from one hang'd in chaines, a yeare agoe. Even our Ordinance plac'd for our defence, Strive to breake loose, and scape away from thence. Pumping hath tir'd our men, and what's the gaine? Seas into seas throwne, we suck in againe; Hearing hath deaf'd our saylers; and if they Knew how to heare, there's none knowes what to say. Compar'd to these stormes, death is but a qualme, Hell somewhat lightsome, and the' Bermuda calme. Darknesse, lights eldest brother, his birth-right Claim'd o'r this world, and to heaven hath chas'd light. All things are one, and that one none can be, Since all formes, uniforme deformity Doth cover, so that wee, except God say

Another Fiat, shall have no more day. So violent, yet long these furies bee, That though thine absence sterve me, 'I wish not thee.