Restless he lay, imbitter’d with reflection—
Curs’d his own folly—had he but his will,
He’d sooner retail figs on Ludgate Hill.
Poor John thus lay, till by propitious blast,
The ready Anchor’s in the Tagus cast.
Now motionless the Ship, the sickness flew,
His wondering eyes successive objects drew.
Saw the proud Tagus in smooth torrent Flow,
Greeting fair Lisbon, with its breast of Snow;
Saw Churches, Convents, o’er each other rise,