LXXVII. Richard Zouche

TAKE wing, my Muse, and, like that silent doue

Which o’er the world, new-bath’d, did hou’ring fly,

The low-coucht seas, and high-plac’t land above,

Discerne with faithfull, though with fearfull eye,

That what both land and sea resounding ring

We may to this All-maker’s prayses sing.

He who directs the sparrowe’s tender flight,

And sees him safely reach the heartlesse ground,

Guide thee in all thy passages aright,

And grant thy course be sure, thy resting sound,

From Mount of Oliues, as from hill of bayes,

Blest with the branch of peace, though not of praise.

And you, whose care our floating houses yet saues

From sinking in the deluge of despayre,

Whils’t with poore feather’d oares she passe the waues

Of this all-vulgar-breath’d, storme-threatening ayre,—

Deare Lord, vouchsafe with patient looke t’ attend

Her flight’s both trembling rise and humble end.