Sir Charles Sedley (1639–1701)

LOVE still has something of the sea,

From whence his mother rose;

No time his slaves from love can free,

Nor give their thoughts repose.

They are becalmed in clearest days,

And in rough weather tossed;

They wither under cold delays,

Or are in tempests lost.

One while they seem to touch the port,

Then straight into the main

Some angry wind in cruel sport

The vessel drives again.

At first Disdain and Pride they fear,

Which, if they chance to ’scape,

Rivals and Falsehood soon appear

In a more dreadful shape.

By such degrees to joy they come,

And are so long withstood,

So slowly they receive the sum,

It hardly does them good.

’Tis cruel to prolong a pain,

And to defer a joy,

Believe me, gentle Celemene,

Offends the wingèd boy.

An hundred thousand oaths your fears

Perhaps would not remove,

And if I gazed a thousand years

I could no deeper love.