VI.

Of ships by shipwreck cast on Albion’s coast, Which rotting on the rocks, their death to die: From wooden bones and blood of pitch doth fly A bird, which gets more life than ship had lost.

My ship, Desire, with wind of Lust long tost, Brake on fair cliffs of constant Chastity; Where plagued for rash attempt, gives up his ghost; So deep in seas of virtue, beauties lie: But of this death flies up the purest love, Which seeming less, yet nobler life doth move.