by William Browne (?1591-?1643)


   Steer, hither steer your winged pines,
      All beaten mariners!
   Here lie Love's undiscover'd mines,
      A prey to passangers -
   Perfumes far sweeter than the best
   Which makes the Phoenix' 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.