All for vain Glory’s empty End?
And no Man, whether Foe or Friend,
Your sorry Match can reprehend.
O’er Seas ye rowed, your Arms o’erspread
The Waves, and Sea-paths measuréd.
The Spray ye with your Hands did urge,
And glided o’er the Ocean’s Surge;
The Waves with Winter’s fury boil’d
While on the watery Realm ye toil’d,
Thus seven Nights were told,