32
THE LADY'S LOOKING-GLASS.
When the big lip and wat'ry eye
Tell me the rising storm is nigh;
'Tis then thou art yon angry main,
Deform'd by winds, and dash'd by rain;
And the poor sailor that must try
Its fury, labours less than I.
Shipwreck'd, in vain to land I make,
While love and fate still drive me back,
Forc'd to doat on thee thy own way,
I chide thee first and then obey.
Wretched when from thee, vext when nigh,
I with thee or without thee die.
