To Mr. Christopher Brooke

Thou which art I, ('tis nothing to be soe)Thou which art still thy selfe, by these shalt knowPart of our passage; And, a hand, or eyeBy 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 preheminenceOf 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 soothsay,Honour and misery have one face and way.)From out her pregnant intrailes sigh'd a windeWhich at th'ayres middle marble roome did findeSuch strong resistance, that it selfe it threwDowneward againe; and so when it did viewHow 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 weeSo 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 farreAsunder, 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 sameHath now a stormes, anon 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 fullfillAll 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 forgotIf'the world had lasted, now it had beene day.Thousands our noyses were, yet wee'mongst allCould none by his right name, but thunder call:Lightning was all our light, and it rain'd moreThen if the Sunne had drunke the sea before.Some coffin'd in their cabbins lye,'equallyGriev'd that they are not dead, and yet must dye;And as sin-burd'ned soules from graves 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 MastShak'd with this ague, and the Hold and WastWith a salt dropsie clog'd, and all our tacklingsSnapping, 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 theyKnew 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 elder brother, his birth-rightClaims 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 deformityDoth cover, so that wee, except God sayAnother Fiat, shall have no more day.So violent, yet long these furies bee,That though thine absence sterve me,'I wish not thee.