'Tis just, my Dear, that our Amour
Should by this sudden Storm be crost:
Our Bark too soon would gain the Shore,
Were she not back to Sea--ward tost.
A Prize so rich, it were unfit to get,
Without exceeding Peril, Pains and Sweat.

The Joys, which else too strong might prove
For us to bear, are temper'd well
With Sorrow thus, by gentle Love,
To make them more supportable;
So Bacchus's Rage with Water is allay'd,
And Sol's hot Beams are chasten'd with a Shade.

No Tempest useth to adorn
The Nuptials of the vulgar sort;
Those Fortune passeth by in Scorn,
They lie beneath her haughty Sport:
But high Desires she loves to vex, that so
Delays and Fears may make them Dearer grow.

He were unwise that would not go
To Heav'n through hardest Sufferings:
And certainly, my fair One (tho'
The odds be great) of earthly things
None more resemble the Delights above
Than the chast Pleasures of a mutual Love.

Let not this Change then trouble thee,
As if some ill it did portend;
The Way, tho' rough and sharp it be,
Will lead us safely in the end
Into each others Arms, where linked fast,
How light will seem to us all Labours past.