William Browne (c. 1590–c. 1645)

STEER hither, steer your wingèd pines,

All beaten mariners!

Here lie Love’s undiscover’d mines.

A prey to passengers;—

Perfumes far sweeter than the best

Which make the Phœnix’ urn and nest.

Fear not your ships,

Nor any to oppose you save our lips;

But come on shore,

Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more.

For swelling waves, our panting breasts,

Where never storms arise,

Exchange, and be awhile our guests:

For stars gaze on our eyes.

The compass Love shall hourly sing,

And as he goes about the ring,

We will not miss

To tell each point he nameth with a kiss:

Then come on shore,

Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more.