IV.

1.

The puny pinnace yonder you, my friends, discern,

Of every ship professes agilest to be.

Nor yet a timber o'er the waves alertly flew

She might not aim to pass it; oary-wing'd alike

To fleet beyond them, or to scud beneath a sail.

Nor here presumes denial any stormy coast

Of Adriatic or the Cyclad orbed isles,

A Rhodos immemorial, or that icy Thrace,

Propontis, or the gusty Pontic ocean-arm,

Whereon, a pinnace after, in the days of yore

A leafy shaw she budded; oft Cytorus' height

With her did inly whisper airy colloquy.