Book I, 101: To my BOOKE

My Little Pinnace, strike thy Sayles,
Let slippe thy Anchor? The Wine fayles:
And Sea-men oft, in Calmes doe feare
That foule, and boy rous ather's neare;
If a Storme should rise
And bler from Censorious Eyes,
Although the swelling Waes be rough,
And proud, thy sae enough:
Rest, Rest a while, ill bbing Tides
Shall make thee stanch, and breme thy sides;
When Winds shall serve, hoyst up thy Sayle,
And flye before a prosp'rous Gale
That all the Coasters may resort,
And bid thee welcome to thy PORT.