They, back returning, orderly retreat:
Those subtle sparks converted are to breath,
The spissy air, being doomed unto death,
Turns into sea, earth's made a thick'ned water.
330Thus wily Nature is a strange translator.
(My lady readers I refer to Sandys,
But the grave learnèd unto Ovid's hands.)
Nor Seneca divine wants prophesies.
Near to the death of time, an age shall rise
In which says he, the ocean shall untie