On Sir Gervas Loftie

What what a Spanish gate this portly tal
And glorious Ship doth through the Ocean sail
Of its vast boundless pride? at which the smal
And weaker pinnace must or break or vail?
He wil know no man; this the cause may be,
He hardly knows himself, for every day
He or his garment's not the same, whilst he
Turns shapes like Proteus, looking big and gay.
Poor ship although your sails so wide you bear,
I know ther's twenty have in thee a share.