LIV.

So sleeps a pilot, whose poore barke is prest With many a mercylesse o're-mastring wave; For whom (as dead) the wrathfull winds contest Which of them deep'st shall digge her watry grave. Why dost thou let thy brave soule lye supprest In death-like slumbers, while thy dangers crave A waking eye and hand? looke vp and see The Fates ripe, in their great conspiracy.