Classic Poem

As if the storme meant him;
Or, 'cause Heavens face is dim,
His needs a cloud.
Was ever froward wind
That could be so unkind,
Or wave so proud?
The Wind had need be angry, and the Water black,
That to the mighty Neptune's self dare threaten wrack.

There is no storme but this
Of your owne Cowardise
That braves you out;
You are the storme that mocks
Your selves; you are the Rocks
Of your owne doubt:
Besides this feare of danger, there's no danger here;
And he that here feares Danger, does deserve his Feare.