LIKE to the shipman, in his brittle boat,
Tossed aloft by the unconstant wind;
By dangerous rocks and whirling gulfs doth float,
Hoping, at length, the wishèd Port to find:
So doth my love in stormy billows sail,
And passing the gaping SCYLLA's waves,
In hope at length with CHLORIS to prevail;
And win that prize which most my fancy craves.
Which unto me of value will be more
Than was that rich and wealthy Golden Fleece;
Which JASON stout, from Colchos island bore,
With wind in sails, unto the shore of Greece,
More rich, more rare, more worth her love I prize;
Than all the wealth which under heaven lies.