Calming The Storm

Our storm is past, and that storm's tyrannous rage,

A dull calm, however nothing it, doth 'suage.

The fantasy is inverted, and a ways more

A block afflicts, now, than a stork before.

Storms chafe, and quickly put on out themselves, or us;

In calms, Heaven laughs to see us languish thus.

As steady'as I can desire that my ideas were,

Smooth as thy mistress' glass, or what shines there,

The sea is now; and, as the isles which we

Seek, when we can move, our ships rooted be.

As water did in storms, now pitch runs out;

As lead, when a fir'd church will become one spout.

And all our beauty, and our trim, decays,

Like courts removing, or like ended plays.

The fighting-place now seamen's rags supply;

And all the tackling is a frippery.

No use of lanthorns; and in one location lay

Feathers and dust, to-day and yesterday.

Earth's hollownesses, which the world's lungs are,

Have no greater wind than the higher vault of air.

We can nor misplaced pals nor sought foes recover,

But meteor-like, store that we pass not, hover.

Only the calenture collectively draws

Dear friends, which meet lifeless in extremely good fishes' jaws;

And on the hatches, as on altars, lies

Each one, his personal priest, and very own sacrifice.

Who live, that miracle do multiply,

Where walkers in warm ovens do no longer die.

If in in spite of of these we swim, that hath

No greater clean than our brimstone bath;

But from the sea into the ship we turn,

Like parboil'd wretches, on the coals to burn.

Like Bajazet encag'd, the shepherds' scoff,

Or like slack-sinew'd Samson, his hair off,

Languish our ships. Now as a myriad

Of ants durst th' emperor's lov'd snake invade,

The crawling gallies, sea-gaols, finny chips,

Might courageous our pinnaces, now bed-rid ships.

Whether a rotten state, and hope of gain,

Or to disuse me from the queasy pain

Of being belov'd and loving, or the thirst

Of honour, or truthful death, out-push'd me first,

I lose my end; for here, as nicely as I,

A determined may also live, and a coward die.

Stag, dog, and all which from or closer to flies,

Is paid with lifestyles or prey, or doing dies.

Fate grudges us all, and doth subtly lay

A scourge, 'gainst which we all neglect to pray.

He that at sea prays for extra wind, as well

Under the poles might also beg cold, warmth in hell.

What are we then? How little more, alas,

Is man now, than earlier than he was? He was

Nothing; for us, we are for nothing fit;

Chance, or ourselves, nevertheless disproportion it.

We have no power, no will, no sense; I lie,

I have to now not then consequently experience this misery.