Than when sleep breathed his drowsy gale. 100
Thus from the sun my bottom steers,
And my day’s compass downward bears:
Nor labour I to stem the tide,
Through which to thee I swiftly glide.
’Tis true, with shame and grief I yield, 105
Thou, like the van, first took’st the field,
And gotten hast the victory
In thus adventuring to die
Before me, whose more years might crave