30To every puff of wind a slave,
At the beck of every wave,
That once perhaps was fair, rich, stout, and wise!
V.
While thus Philander pensive said,
Touch'd only with a pity for mankind,
At nearer view, he thought he knew the dead,
And call'd the wretched man to mind:
Alas, said he, art thou that angry thing,
That with thy looks didst threaten death,