But must I now to Sea? well, ’tis no matter;
Fortune now frowns, though heretofore did flatter.
Let not my soul despond, since ’tis my hap,
I’ll scorn that Whore, and trust to Thetis lap:
Though she may foam with anger, and the wind
May aggravate her passion, I may find
Her calm again, and set me on that shore,
Where I may Moor, and put to sea no more.
Neptune may shake his Trident, and each wave,
Or tumbling billow may become my grave.