The Tempest (Standing upon the margent of the Main)

Standing upon the margent of the Main,
Whilst the high boiling Tide came tumbling in,
I felt my fluctuating thoughts maintain
As great an Ocean, and as rude, within;
As full of Waves, of Depths, and broken Grounds,
As that which daily laves her chalky bounds.

Soon could my sad Imagination find
A Parallel to this half World of Floud,
An Ocean by my walls of Earth confin'd,
And Rivers in the Chanels of my Bloud:
Discovering man, unhappy man, to be
Of this great Frame Heaven's Epitome.

There pregnant Argosies with full Sails ride,
To shoot the Gulphs of Sorrow and Despair,
Of which the Love no Pilot has to guide,
But to her Sea-born Mother steers by Pray'r,
When, oh! the Hope her Anchor lost, undone,
Rolls at the mercy of the Regent Moon.

'Tis my ador'd Diana, then must be
The Guid'ress to this beaten Bark of mine,
'Tis she must calm and smooth this troubled Sea,
And waft my hope over the vaulting Brine:
Call home thy venture Dian then at last,
And be as merciful as thou art chaste.