Fortune, who loves her cruel game,Still bent upon some heartless whim,Shifts her caresses, fickle dame,Now kind to me, and now to him:She stays; 'tis well: but let her shakeThose wings, her presents I resign,Cloak me in native worth, and takeChaste Poverty undower'd for mine.Though storms around my vessel rave,I will not fall to craven prayers,Nor bargain by my vows to saveMy Cyprian and Sidonian wares,Else added to the insatiate main.Then through the wild Aegean roarThe breezes and the Brethren TwainShall waft my little boat ashore.