So might I save thee flung by spuming billows of ocean,Shipwreckt, rescuing life snatcht from the threshold of death;Eke neither Venus the Holy to rest in slumber's refreshmentGrants thee her grace on couch lying deserted and lone,Nor can the Muses avail with dulcet song of old writersEver delight thy mind sleepless in anxious care;Grateful be this to my thought since thus thy friend I'm entitled,Hence of me seekest thou gifts Muses and Venus can give:But that bide not unknown to thee my sorrows (0 Manius!)And lest office of host I should be holden to hate, Learn how in Fortune's deeps I chance myself to be drownèd,Nor fro' the poor rich boons furthermore prithee require.What while first to myself the pure-white garment was given,Whenas my flowery years flowed in fruition of spring,Much I disported enow, nor 'bode I a stranger to GoddessWho with our cares is lief sweetness of bitter to mix:Yet did a brother's death pursuits like these to my sorrow