IF as the windes and waters here below
                                                 Do flie and flow,
My sighs and tears as busie were above;
                                                  Sure they would move
And much affect thee, as tempestuous times
Amaze poore mortals, and object1 their crimes.

Starres 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 thee, and besiege thy doore.

There it stands knocking, to thy musicks wrong,
                                                 And drowns the song.
Glorie and honour are set by, till it 
                                                 An answer get.
Poets have wrong’d poore storms: such dayes are best;
They purge the aire without, within the breast.