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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