Of laboring men vicarious. I the first
Upon the lint-winged car of mariner
Was launched, sea-wandering. Such wise arts I found,
To soothe the ills of man’s ephemeral life;
But for myself, plunged in this depth of woe,
No prop I find.
Chorus.—Sad chance! Thy wit hath slipt
From its firm footing then when needed most,
Like some unlearned leech who many healed,
But being sick himself, from all his store,