The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er; So calm are we when passions are no more!

Give us enough but with a sparing hand.

A narrow compass! and yet there Dwelt all that 's good, and all that 's fair; Give me but what this riband bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round.

Sixty mile-an-hour winds, over five hours, will raise seas from dead calm to about 19 feet.

And as pale sickness does invade, Your frailer part, the breaches made, In that fair lodging still more clear, Make the bright guest, your soul, appear.

For whom all winds are quiet as the sun,/ All waters as the shore.