To My Lady E. C. at Her Going out of England

I must confess, when I did part from you,
I could not force an artificial dew
Upon my cheeks, nor with a gilded phrase
Express how many hundred several ways
My heart was tortur'd, nor, with arms across,
In discontented garbs set forth my loss :
Such loud expressions many times do come
From lightest hearts : great griefs are always dumb.
The shallow rivers roar, the deep are still ;
Numbers of painted words may shew much skill :
But little anguish and a cloudy face
Is oft put on, to serve both time and place :
The blazing wood may to the eye seem great ;
But 'tis the fire rak'd up that has the heat.
And keeps it long. True sorrow's like to wine :
That which is good does never need a sign.
My eyes were channels far too small to be
Conveyers of such floods of misery :
And so pray think ; or if you'd entertain
A thought more charitable, suppose some strain
Of sad repentance had, not long before.
Quite emptied for my sins that watery store :
So shall you him oblige that still will be
Your servant to his best ability.