Of life, almost by eight hours' sail
100Than when sleep breath'd his drowsy gale.
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,
Thou, like the van, first took'st the field,
And gotten hast the victory,
In thus adventuring to die