html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }Love still has something of the Sea,
From whence his Mother rose;
No time his Slaves from doubt can free,
Nor give their Thoughts repose:
They are becalm'd in clearest Days,
And in rough weather tost;
They wither under cold delays,
Or are in Tempests lost.
One while they seem to touch the Port,
Then straight into the Main,
Some angry Wind, in cruel sport,
Their Vessel drives again.
At first, Disdain and Pride they fear,
Which if they chance to scape,
Rivals and falshood soon appear
In a more dreadful Shape.
By such degrees to Joy they come,
And are so long withstood,
So slowly they receive the Sum,
It hardly does them good.
'Tis Cruel to prolong a Pain;
And to defer a Bliss:
Believe me, gentle Hermione
No less Inhumane is.
And Hundred Thousand Oaths your Fears
Perhaps would not remove;
And if I gaz'd a Thousand Years,
I could no deeper Love,
'Tis fitter much for you to guess,
Than for me to explain;
But grant, O grant that Happiness
Which only does remain.