1 When the butt is out, we will drink water; not a drop before.
2 If by your art, my dearest father, you have Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them.
3 He'll be hanged yet, though every drop of water swear against it and gape at wid'st to glut him.
4 He trod the water, Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted The surge most swoll'n that met him.
5 That our garments, being, as they were, drenched in the sea, hold notwithstanding their freshness and gloss, being rather new-dyed than stained with salt water.
6 Sitting on a bank, Weeping again the King my father's wrack, This music crept by me upon the waters, Allaying both their fury and my passion With its sweet air.
7 The elements Of whom your swords are tempered may as well Wound the loud winds or with bemocked-at stabs Kill the still-closing waters as diminish One dowl that's in my plume.
8 Some food we had, and some fresh water, that A noble Neapolitan, Gonzalo, Out of his charity, who being then appointed Master of this design, did give us, with Rich garments, linens, stuffs, and necessaries, Which since have steaded much.