The fraile Carine of my distemperd soule,
Did on the billowes rowle,
Of this tempesto'us World: The rageing gusts
Of Passions, and lusts,
Did from all quarters blow: The helme was lost:
Never was ship so tost:
The Maine mast strayn'd, and ready was to fall,
So was misne Mast and all:
The tackleing crack'd, like rotten threed, or strawes,
And the vast deepes wide jawes,
Each minute, threaten'd to involve this barke,
Within their bowells darke:
Then (like the Galileean Masters) I
Cry'd loud, and fervently,
(Lord) save me least I perish: whereupon,
The Tempest ceased soone./
Did on the billowes rowle,
Of this tempesto'us World: The rageing gusts
Of Passions, and lusts,
Did from all quarters blow: The helme was lost:
Never was ship so tost:
The Maine mast strayn'd, and ready was to fall,
So was misne Mast and all:
The tackleing crack'd, like rotten threed, or strawes,
And the vast deepes wide jawes,
Each minute, threaten'd to involve this barke,
Within their bowells darke:
Then (like the Galileean Masters) I
Cry'd loud, and fervently,
(Lord) save me least I perish: whereupon,
The Tempest ceased soone./
