Behold thy brother! As the sailors sound
With care the bottom, and their ships confine
To some safe shore, with anchor and with line:
So, by Jove's dread decree the god of fire
Confines me here the victim of Jove's ire.
With baneful art his dire machine he shapes;
From such a god what mortal e'er escapes?
When each third day shall triumph o'er the night,
Then doth the vulture, with his talons light,
Seize on my entrails; which, in rav'nous guise,