SONG

LOve still has something of the Sea,
From whence his Mother rose;
No time his Slaves from doubt can free,
Nor give their thoughts repose:

They are becalm'd in clearest dayes,
And in rough weather tost;
They wither under cold delayes,
Or are in tempests lost.

One while they seem to touch the Po…,
Then straight into the Main,
Some angry Wind in cruel sport,
Their Vessel drives again.

At first, disdain and pride they fear,
Which if they chance to scape,
Rival… and falshood soon appear
In a more dreadful shape.

By such degrees to joy they come,
And are so long withstood,
So slowly they receive the summe,
It hardly does them good.

Tis cruel to prolong a pain;
And to defer a Bliss,
Believe me, gent… Hermione,
No less inhumane is.

An hundred thousand oaths your fears,
Perhaps would not remove;
And if I gaz'd a thousand years,
I could no deeper love.

'Tis fitter much for you to guess,
Then for me to explain;
But grant, O grant that happiness
Which only does remain.