Fear

Come on, Sir,—here's the place—stand still.— How fearful 'tis to cast one's eyes so low! The crows and choughs, that wing the midway air, Shew scarce so gross as beetles. Half way down, Hangs one that gathers samphire—dreadful trade! Methinks he seems no bigger than one's head. The fishermen, that walk upon the beech, Appear like mice; and you tall anchoring bark Seems lessen'd to a cock; her cock, a buoy Almost too small for sight. The murmuring surge, That on th' unnumber'd idle pebbles chafes, Cannot be heard so high.—I'll look no more, Lest my brain turn, and the disorder make me Tumble down headlong.