If as the winds and waters here below

Do fly and flow,

My sighs and tears as busy were above;

Sure they would move

And much affect thee, as tempestuous 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, and besiege thy door.

There it stands knocking, to thy musick’s 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.