Good sorrow cease, false hope be gone, misfortune once farewell;

Come, solemn muse, the sad discourse of our adventures tell.

A friend I had whose special part made mine affection his;

We ruled tides and streams ourselves, no want was in our bliss.

Six years we sailed, sea-room enough, by many happy lands,

Till at the length, a stream us took and cast us on the sands.

There lodged we were in a gulf of woe, despairing what to do,

Till at the length, from shore unknown, a Pilot to us drew,

Whose help did sound our grounded ship from out Caribda’s mouth,

But unadvised, on Scylla drives; the wind which from the South

Did blustering blow the fatal blast of our unhappy fall,

Where driving, leaves my friend and I to fortune ever thrall;

Where we be worse beset with sands and rocks on every side,

Where we be quite bereft of aid, of men, of winds, of tide.

Where vain it is to hail for help so far from any shore,

So far from Pilot’s course; despair shall we, therefore?

No! God from out his heap of helps on us will some bestow,

And send such mighty surge of seas, or else such blasts to blow

As shall remove our grounded ship far from this dangerous place,

And we shall joy each others’ chance through God’s almighty grace,

And keep ourselves on land secure, our sail on safer seas.

Sweet friend, till then content thy self, and pray for our release.