Book IV, 36: On my Soule

My weather-beaten Soule long time has bin
Becalm'd, and tiding in the Sea of Sin;
But now afflictions Storme does drive and tosse
Her batter'd Keele: The wind is loud and crosse:
Feare fills her tatterd Sailes, & doubts doe drive her,
She knowes not where; and of all hopes deprive her:
Thus, thus transported by the troubled Ayre
Amongst the swallowing Quick-sands of despaire,
If not prevented by a greater power,
She looks for wreck and ruine ev'ry hower;
O, that mine eyes could raine a Showre of Teares,
That, that would lay the Storme of all my Feares.