She ticklish grows, as wanton of her tayle,
And layes her side, close where the weather beats;
Both prone and puppe, do answere so the Helme,
The Steirsman sings, no griefe his joy can whelm.
By night our watch we set, by day our sight,
And thirle our Sailes, if Pirats but appeare;
We rest resolv’d, it’s force, makes Cowards fight,
[VII. 329.]Though none more dare, then they that have most feare,
It’s courage makes us rash, and wisdome cold,