Never are sated with sight of my son, all-dearest of figures.Nor will I send you forth with joy that gladdens my bosom,Nor will I suffer you show boon signs of favouring Fortune,But from my soul I'll first express an issue of sorrow,Soiling my hoary hairs with dust and ashes commingled;Then will I hang stained sails fast-made to the wavering yard-arms,So shall our mourning thought and burning torture of spiritShow by the dark sombre-dye of Iberian canvas spread.But, grant me the grace Who dwells in Sacred Itone,(And our issue to guard and ward the seats of ErechtheusSware She) that if your right is besprent with blood of the Man-Bull,Then do you so-wise act, and stored in memory's heart-coreDwell these mandates of me, no time their traces untracing.Dip, when first shall arise our hills to gladden your eye-glance,Down from your every mast the ill-omened vestments of mourning,Then let the twisten ropes upheave the whitest of canvas,Wherewith splendid shall gleam the tallest spars of the top-mast,These seeing sans delay with joy exalting my spiritWell shall I wot boon Time sets you returning before me."

Such were the mandates which stored at first in memory constant