You boast your name and lineage—madly blindCan painted timbers quell a seaman's fear?Beware! or else the windMakes you its mock and jeer.Your trouble late made sick this heart of mine,And still I love you, still am ill at ease.O, shun the sea, where shineThe thick-sown Cyclades!When the false swain was hurrying o'er the deepHis Spartan hostess in the Idaean bark,Old Nereus laid the unwilling winds asleep,That all to Fate might hark,Speaking through him:—“Home in ill hour you takeA prize whom Greece shall claim with troops untold,Leagued by an oath your marriage tie to breakAnd Priam's kingdom old.Alas! what deaths you launch on Dardan realm!What tolls are waiting, man and horse to tire!See! Pallas trims her aegis and her helm,Her chariot and her ire.