Me, too, Orion's mate, the Southern blast,Whelm'd in deep death beneath the Illyrian wave.But grudge not, sailor, of driven sand to castA handful on my head, that owns no grave.So, though the eastern tempests loudly threatHesperia's main, may green Venusia's crownBe stripp'd, while you lie warm; may blessings yetStream from Tarentum's guard, great Neptune, down,And gracious Jove, into your open lap!What! shrink you not from crime whose punishmentFalls on your innocent children? it may hapImperious Fate will make yourself repent.My prayers shall reach the avengers of all wrong;No expiations shall the curse unbind.Great though your haste, I would not task you long;Thrice sprinkle dust, then scud before the wind.