Richard Shephard: Never weather-beaten sail

Neuer weather-beaten Saile more willing bent to shore,
Neuer tyred Pilgrims limbs affected slumber more,
Than my wearied spright now longs to flye out of my troubled brest:
O come quickly, sweetest Lord, and take my soule to rest.

Euer-blooming are the ioys of Heau'ns high paradice,
Cold age deafes not there our eares, nor vapour dims our eyes:
Glory there the Sun outshines, whose beames the blessed onely see;
O come quickly, glorious Lord, and raise my spright to thee.