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Ten hours in this rude Tempest we were toss'd,
And ev'ry moment gave ourselves for lost,

Heav'n knows how ill prepar'd for sudden death;
When the rough winds, as they'd been out of breath,
Now seem'd to pant, and panting to retreat,
The waves with gentler force against us beat;
The sky clear'd up, the sun again shone bright,
And gave us once again new life and light;
We could again bear sail in those rough seas,
The sea-men now resume their offices;
Hope warm'd us now anew, anew the heart
Did to our cheeks some streaks of blood impart ;
And in two hours, or very little more,
We came to anchor Falcon-shot from shore,
The very same we left the morn before;
Where now in a yet working sea, and high,
Until the wind shall veer, we rolling lie,
Resting secure from present fear; but then
The dangers we escap'd must tempt agen;
Which if again I safely shall get through,
(And sure I know the worst the sea can do)
So soon as I shall touch my native land,

I'll thence ride post to kiss your Lordship's hand.

Contentation 25



HEAV'N, what an Age is this! what race
Of giants are sprung up, that dare
Thus fly in the Almighty's Face,
And with his Providence make war!

25 See Note 9.

I can go no where but I meet

With malcontents, and mutineers,
As if in life was nothing sweet,

And we must blessings reap in tears.


O senseless Man, that murmurs still
For happiness, and does not know,
Even though he might enjoy his will,
What he would have to make him so.


Is it true happiness to be

By undiscerning Fortune plac't,

In the most eminent degree,

Where few arrive, and none stand fast?

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Titles and wealth are Fortune's toils
Wherewith the vain themselves ensnare ;
The great are proud of borrow'd spoils,
The miser's plenty breeds his care.


The one supinely yawns at rest,

Th' other eternally doth toil,
Each of them equally a beast,

A pamper'd horse, or lab'ring moil.26


The titulado's oft disgrac'd,

By public hate, or private frown,
And he whose hand the creature rais'd,
Has yet a foot to kick him down.


The drudge who would all get, all save,

Like a brute beast both feeds and lies, Prone to the earth, he digs his grave, And in the very labour dies.


Excess of ill got, ill kept pelf,

Does only death, and danger breed, Whilst one rich worldling starves himself With what would thousand others feed.


By which we see that wealth and power Although they make men rich and great, The sweets of life do often sour,

And gull ambition with a cheat.


Nor is he happier than these,
Who in a moderate estate,
Where he might safely live at ease,
Has lusts that are immoderate.


For he, by those desires misled,
Quits his own vine's securing shade,

T'expose his naked, empty head

To all the storms man's peace invade.


Nor is he happy who is trim,

Trick'd up in favours of the fair, Mirrors, with every breath made dim,

Birds caught in every wanton snare.

Woman, man's greatest woe, or bliss,
Does ofter far, than serve, enslave,
And with the magic of a kiss,

Destroy whom she was made to save.


Oh fruitful grief, the world's disease!
And vainer man to make it so,
Who gives his miseries increase
By cultivating his own woe.


There are no ills but what we make,

By giving shapes and names to things; Which is the dangerous mistake

That causes all our sufferings.


We call that sickness, which is health, That persecution, which is grace; That poverty, which is true wealth, And that dishonour, which is praise.


Providence watches over all,

And that with an impartial eye,

And if to misery we fall,

'Tis through our own infirmity.


'Tis want of foresight makes the bold
Ambitious youth to danger climb,
And want of virtue, when the old
At persecution do repine.

Alas, our time is here so short,
That in what state soe'er 'tis spent,

Of joy or woe does not import,

Provided it be innocent.


But we may make it pleasant too,
If we will take our measures right,
And not what Heav'n has done, undo
By an unruly appetite.


'Tis Contentation that alone

Can make us happy here below,

And when this little life is gone,

Will lift us up to Heav'n too.


A very little satisfies

An honest, and a grateful heart,
And who would more than will suffice,
Does covet more than is his part.


That man is happy in his share,

Who is warm clad, and cleanly fed,
Whose necessaries bound his care,
And honest labour makes his bed.


Who free from debt, and clear from crimes,

Honours those laws that others fear,

Who ill of Princes in worst times

Will neither speak himself, nor hear.

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