Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse, And every conqueror creates a muse.
The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er; So calm are we when passions are no more!
Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.
Others may use the ocean as their road; Only the English make it their abode.
Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.
And as pale sickness does invade, Your frailer part, the breaches made, In that fair lodging still more clear, Make the bright guest, your soul, appear.