To Endimion Porter, passing to Court to him, by water.
Ode.
(1) The truth and wisdome of your Compasse boast (Dull Men of th'Sea!) when you the flow'rie Coast Have reach'd, to which you steere; Thinke then, those Clouds are shrunke againe, That swell'd, as if they hoorded Rayne For all the Yeare. Thinke then, those ruder Winds are dumbe, That would endevour Stormes to come; And that the Rocks no more (As they were wont) shall hide themselves, To practise mischiefe on the Shelves So neere the shore.
(2) Into the Silver Flood I launch'd; and fraught My Bark with Hope, the Parasite of thought: To Court my voyage tends; But Hope grew sick, and wish'd me feare, The Bark would split, that harbour'd there To trade for Friends. Wise Love, that sought a noble choyce, To tune my Harp, and raise my Voyce, Forbids my Pinnace rest; 'Till I had cur'd weake Hope agin, By safely Anchoring within Endimion's Brest.
(3) Endimion! who, with Numbers sweet can move Soules (though untun'd) to such degrees of love; That Men shall sooner see, Th'inticed Needle disobey The tempting Adamant, than they His Poesie: And I (exalted now,) ne're minde Their breath, who storm'd, t'increase the Winde By which th'are overthrowne; Their Stock of rage, and Lyrick skill, They boast in vaine; the Poets Hill Is all mine owne.
