XVIII. If Sea, no other thing doth shew to be

Robert Tofte (1561–1620)

IF Sea, no other thing doth shew to be

Than most unstable waters moving oft:

With pardon, Lady, you this seem to me;

So most unstable is your changing thought.

I, likewise, hold a River, that o’erwhelms

With wat’ry salt, within these eyes of mine.

Then let us make a mixture ’mongst ourselves

Of this unsteadfastness and wat’ry brine!

Let ’s fashion, both of us, a novel Sea!

So heaven, the Haven; and Love, the Bay shall be.