A SHIP .

T OSS'D in a troubled sea of griefs, I float
Far from the shore, in a storm-beaten boat;
Where my sad thoughts do, like the compass, show
The several points from which cross-winds do blow.
My heart doth, like the needle, touch'd with love,
Still fix'd on you, point which way I would move;
You are the bright pole-star, which, in the dark
Of this long absence, guides my wand'ring bark;
Love is the pilot, but, o'er-come with fear
Of your displeasure, dares not homewards steer.
My fearful hope hangs on my trembling sail,
Nothing is wanting but a gentle gale,
Which pleasant breath must blow from your sweet lip:
Bid it but move, and quick as thought this ship
Into your arms, which are my port, will fly,
Where it for ever shall at anchor lie.