The Calme

Our storme is past, and that storms tyrannous rage,A stupid calme, but nothing it, doth swage.The fable is inverted, and farre moreA blocke afflicts, now, then a storke before.Stormes chafe, and soone weare out themselves, or us;In calmes, Heaven laughs to see us languish thus.As steady'as I can wish, that my thoughts were,Smooth as thy mistresse glasse, or what shines there,The sea is now. And, as the Iles which weeSeeke, when wee can move, our ships rooted bee.As water did in stormes, now pitch runs out:As lead, when a fir'd Church becomes one spout.And all our beauty, and our trimme, decayes,Like courts removing, or like ended playes.The fighting place now seamens ragges supply;And all the tackling is a frippery.No use of lanthornes; and in one place layFeathers and dust, to day and yesterday.Earths hollownesses, which the worlds lungs are,Have no more winde then the upper valt of aire.We can nor lost friends, nor sought foes recover,But meteorlike, save that wee move not, hover.Onely the Calenture together drawesDeare friends, which meet dead in great fishes jawes:And on the hatches as on Altars lyesEach one, his owne Priest, and owne Sacrifice.Who live, that miracle do multiplyWhere walkers in hot Ovens, doe not dye.If in despite of these, wee swimme, that hathNo more refreshing, then our brimstone Bath,But from the sea, into the ship we turne,Like parboyl'd wretches, on the coales to burne.Like Bajazet encag'd, the shepheards scoffe,Or like slacke sinew'd Sampson, his haire off,Languish our ships. Now, as a MiriadeOf Ants, durst th'Emperours lov'd snake invade,The crawling Gallies, Sea-goales, finny chips,Might brave our Pinnaces, now bed-ridde ships.Whether a rotten state, and hope of gaine,Or to disuse mee from the queasie paineOf being belov'd, and loving, or the thirstOf honour, or faire death, out pusht mee first,I lose my end: for here as well as IA desperate may live, and a coward die.Stagge, dogge, and all which from, or towards flies,Is paid with life, or pray, or doing dyes.Fate grudges us all, and doth subtly layA scourge,'gainst which wee all forget to pray,He that at sea prayes for more winde, as wellUnder the poles may begge cold, heat in hell.What are wee then? How little more alasIs man now, then before he was? he wasNothing; for us, wee are for nothing fit;Chance, or our selves still disproportion it.Wee have no power, no will, no sense; I lye,I should not then thus feele this miserie.