The Storm

If as the windes and waters here below

                        Do flie and flow,

My sighs and tears as busy were above;

                        Sure they would move

And much affect thee, as tempestuous times

Amaze poore mortals, and object their crimes.

Starres have their storms, ev'n in a high degree,

                        As well as we.

A throbbing conscience spurred by remorse

                        Hath a strange force:

It quits the earth, and mounting more and more,

Dares to assault thee, and besiege thy doore.

There it stands knocking, to thy musick's wrong,

                        And drowns the song.

Glorie and honour are set by till it   

                        An answer get.

Poets have wrong'd poore storms: such dayes are best;

They purge the aire without, within the breast.