A matter of repulce, goyng to the Sea.

WHen will and winde doe iarre,
and Neptune proues a foe,
A man maie venter farre, yet haue no powre to goe:
Admit that Ioue doe smile,
if other Gods doe lowre,
We must abide a while, and watche the happie howre.
For eury God in Skies, a seurall nature haue,
And sure greate quarrells rise, by suites that men doe craue:
Of Gods whose sondrie moods, a masse of matter showes,
Some are the Gods of goods, and where that Fortune flowes.
Thei followe tide and tyme, and some are Gods of game,
And some in clouds doe clime, and flies as faste as Fame:
Some alwaies like the seas, and some the lande embrace,
Some lou's to take their ease, and quaff's and bibbs a pace:
Some are the Gods of graine, and flowrs and fruit's likewise,
So now to breake my braine, about these Gods in Skies.
It were but labour loste, yet how should people saile,
Or ride to any coste, when hope of Gods doe faile:
First proue a courage bolde, and goe to feeld and fright,
If Mars his loue waxe cold, ye shalbe conquerd streight.
Where Venus frounes make loue, and see what lucke ye finde,
If Oelus liste not moue, in vaine ye looke for winde:
So many thyngs by name, are rulde through Gods in aire,
And Gods good lucke doe frame, in weather foule or faire.
But Gods doe dwell so hye, and I so lowe remaine,
I knowe not where to crie, nor yet to whom complaine:
A greater greef I feele, a fortune somwhat strange,
So swift tourns Fortunes wheele, that still the winde doeth change.
When I to shipp would goe, no soner tourne I backe,
But streight a gale doeth blowe, where I the winde did icke:
This prou's like eurie suite, that I doe take in hande ,
For others catche the fruite, when at reward I stande.
My Deastnie is enrould, (O maister of Roulls I feare,)
Where winde doeth blowe so cold, there comes no Sommer theare:
And though that Sonne doe shine, it giu's but little heate,
Some saie worse lucke is myne, and my mishap is greate.
Thus here in verse I showe, what winde doeth me a reste,
In hope before I goe, the winde mill bloweth at Weste:
Till then my penne shall walke, where I doe finde good will,
To make my freends to talke, on Churchyardes fortune still.