Tixall Poetry.
159
Among the rest I hear some sighs like mine;
Tis from a lover sure. Ye Powers divine!
Calme, calme this ungentle rage,
The storme asswage;
And let kind Neptune now his trident show.
See, it growes calme, the storms now cease,
And all the Oceans face weares smiles of peace.
Tis from a lover sure. Ye Powers divine!
Calme, calme this ungentle rage,
The storme asswage;
And let kind Neptune now his trident show.
See, it growes calme, the storms now cease,
And all the Oceans face weares smiles of peace.
XLII.
The Royal Exile.
Sad Albina sitts in mourning,
Sighing with her armes acrosse;
Waiting for her Lords returning,
Thus she doth bemoane her losse:
Ah me! Albanius is for ever,
In spite of all those godlike charmes,
Forc'd by those he most did favour,
From his empire, and my armes.
Sighing with her armes acrosse;
Waiting for her Lords returning,
Thus she doth bemoane her losse:
Ah me! Albanius is for ever,
In spite of all those godlike charmes,
Forc'd by those he most did favour,
From his empire, and my armes.
