If as the winds and waters here below
Do fly and flow,
My sighs and tears as bust as above;
Sure they would move
And much affect thee, as tempestious times
Amaze poor mortals, and object their crimes.
Stars 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 beseige thy door.
There is stands knocking, to thy musics wrong,
And drowns the song.
Glory and honour are set by, till it
An answer get.
Poets have wrong'd poor storms: such days are best;
They purge the air without, within the breast.
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