[from the Edition of 1619]

1

Like an aduenturous Sea-farer am I,
Who hath some long and dang’rous Voyage beene,
And call’d to tell of his Discouerie,
How farre he sayl’d, what Countries he had seene,
Proceeding from the Port whence he put forth,
Shewes by his Compasse, how his Course he steer’d,
When East, when West, when South, and when by North,
As how the Pole to eu’ry place was rear’d,
What Capes he doubled, of what Continent,
The Gulphes and Straits, that strangely he had past,
Where most becalm’d, wherewith foule Weather spent,
And on what Rocks in perill to be cast? 
Thus in my Loue, Time calls me to relate
My tedious Trauels, and oft-varying Fate.

6

    How many paltry, foolish, painted things,
    That now in Coaches trouble eu’ry Street,
    Shall be forgotten, whom no Poet sings,
    Ere they be well wrap’d in their winding Sheet? 
    Where I to thee Eternitie shall giue,
    When nothing else remayneth of these dayes,
    And Queenes hereafter shall be glad to liue
    Vpon the Almes of thy superfluous prayse;
    Virgins and Matrons reading these my Rimes,
    Shall be so much delighted with thy story,
    That they shall grieve, they liu’d not in these Times,
    To haue seene thee, their Sexes onely glory: 
      So shalt thou flye aboue the vulgar Throng,
      Still to suruiue in my immortall Song.

8

    There’s nothing grieues me, but that Age should haste,
    That in my dayes I may not see thee old,
    That where those two deare sparkling Eyes are plac’d,
    Onely two Loope-holes, then I might behold. 
    That louely, arched, yuorie, pollish’d Brow,
    Defac’d with Wrinkles, that I might but see;
    Thy daintie Hayre, so curl’d, and crisped now,
    Like grizzled Mosse vpon some aged Tree;
    Thy Cheeke, now flush with Roses, sunke, and leane,
    Thy Lips, with age, as any Wafer thinne,
    Thy Pearly teeth out of thy head so cleane,
    That when thou feed’st, thy Nose shall touch thy Chinne: 
      These Lines that now thou scorn’st, which should delight thee,
      Then would I make thee read, but to despight thee.

15

His Remedie for Loue

    Since to obtaine thee, nothing me will sted,
    I haue a Med’cine that shall cure my Loue,
    The powder of her Heart dry’d, when she is dead,
    That Gold nor Honour ne’r had power to moue;
    Mix’d with her Teares, that ne’r her true-Loue crost,
    Nor at Fifteene ne’r long’d to be a Bride,
    Boyl’d with her Sighes, in giuing vp the Ghost,
    That for her late deceased Husband dy’d;
    Into the same then let a Woman breathe,
    That being chid, did neuer word replie,
    With one thrice-marry’d’s Pray’rs, that did bequeath
    A Legacie to stale Virginitie. 
      If this Receit haue not the pow’r to winne me,
      Little Ile say, but thinke the Deuill’s in me.