The raging stormes whereof, well neere my heart hath swelt
By paineful pangs: whose waltering waues by troubled Skies,
And thousand blasts of winde that in those Seas do ryse
Do promise shipwracke sure of that thy sayling Barke,
When after weather cleare doth rise some Tempest darke.
For eyther I or thou which art of Tyger’s kinde,
In that great raging gulfe some daunger sure shalt finde,
Of that thy nature rude the dest’nies en’mies bee,
And thy great ouerthrow full well they do foresee.
The heauens vnto my estate no doubt great friendship shoe,