Classic Poem

To these, the gentle South, with kisses smooth and soft,
Doth in her bosome breathe, and seemes to court her oft.
Besides, her little Rills, her in-lands that doe feed,
Which with their lavish streames doe furnish everie need:
And Meads, that with their fine soft grassie towels stand
To wipe away the drops and moisture from her hand.
And to the North, betwixt the fore-land and the firme,
Shee hath that narrow Sea, which we the Solent tearme:
Where those rough irefull Tides, as in her Straits they meet,
With boystrous shocks and rores each other rudely greet:
Which fiercelie when they charge, and sadlie make retreat,
Upon the bulwarkt Forts of Hurst and Calsheot beat,
Then to South-hampton runne: which by her shores supplide
(As Portsmouth by her strength) doth vilifie their pride;
Both, Roads that with our best may boldlie hold their plea,
Nor Plimmouths selfe hath borne more braver ships than they;
That from their anchoring Bayes have travailed to finde
Large Chinas wealthie Realms, and view'd the either Inde ,
The pearlie rich Peru ; and with as prosperous fate,
Have borne their ful-spred sailes upon the streames of Plate :
Whose pleasant harbors oft the Sea-mans hope renue,
To rigge his late-craz'd Barke, to spred a wanton clue;
Where they with lustie Sack, and mirthful Sailers songs,
Defie their passed stormes, and laugh at Neptunes wrongs:
The danger quite forgot wherein they were of late;
Who halfe so merrie now as Maister and his Mate?
And victualling againe, with brave and man-like minds
To Sea-ward cast their eyes, and pray for happie winds.