Horace 1, xiv

O vessel that the tide would bear

Far out to sea again, Beware I

Fly swiftly where there lies

A port.   Dost realize

That thou art stripped of oars ? That mast

And yards arc groaning in the blast ?

And that thy hull may be

O'crmaStcrcd bv the sea ?

Thy canvas is no longer whole ;

Nor hast thou Gods on whom thy soul

May call.   No Pontic pine.

No pride in thy design.

No painted poop or useless name

Can save thee ; they will only shame

Thy crew and be the sport

Of Storms such follies court.

Thou, who wast lately my despair

But art become my loving care,

Avoid yon racing seas

'Twixt glistening Cyclades.

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