In His Will, Our Peace.

To Run Over Better Waters The Little Vessel Of My Genius Now Hoists Her Sails, As She Leaves Behind Her A Sea So Cruel.

O You, Who In Some Pretty Boat, Eager To Listen, Have Been Following Behind My Ship, That Singing Sails Along Turn Back To Look Again Upon Your Own Shores; Tempt Not The Deep, Lest Unawares, In Losing Me, You Yourselves Might Be Lost. The Sea I Sail Has Never Yet Been Passed; Minerva Breathes, And Pilots Me Apollo, And Muses Nine Point Out To Me The Bears. You Other Few Who Have Neck Uplifted Betimes To The Bread Of Angels Upon Which One Lives And Does Not Grow Sated, Well May You Launch Your Vessel Upon The Deep Sea.

Still Desiring, We Live Without Hope.

The Loser, When A Game Of Dice Is Done, Remains Behind Reviewing Every Roll Sadly, And Sadly Wiser, And Alone.

No Sadness Is Greater Than In Misery To Rehearse Memories Of Joy.