In store for him what tribulations!
But now his joy is all in you;
He thinks your heart is purest gold;
Expects you'll always be love-true,
And never, never, will grow cold.
Poor mariner on summer seas,
Untaught to fear the treacherous breeze!
Ah, wretched whom your Siren call
Deludes and brings to watery woes!
For me—yon plaque on Neptune's wall