From thence to heau’n doth in a moment skip.
268.
The poore sad sailers beaten out of breath
With toilesome paine, and with long watching worne,
Through feare, the feeble consort of cold death,
Not knowing, alas, which way themselues to turne,
With wofull cries their fatall fall did mourne,
And cast their eyes to heau’n, where, what was seene,
Was blacke as hell, as if no heau’n had been.
269.