To CASTARA, Melancholly.

WEre but that sigh a penitentiall breath
That thou art mine: It would blow with it death,
T' inclose me in ray marble Where I'de be
Slave to the tyrant wormes, to set thee free.
What should we envy? Though with larger saile
Some dance upon the Ocean: yet more fraile
And faithlesse is that wave, than where …e glide,
Blest in the saf…t… of a private tide.
We still have land in ken. And 'cause our boat
Dares not affront the weather, wee'le ne're float
Farre from the shore. To daring them each cloud
Is big with thunder, every wind speakes loud.
And though wild rockes about the shore appeare
Yet vertue will finde roome to anchor there.