Few weary winters pight in worldly pale
I lived, the sport of mis'ry dour and dure;
So soon my youthful day-tide wox obscure
Hardly a five poor lustres told the tale.
I ran o'er lands and o'er long seas made sail,
Seeking life's evils or to kill or cure:
But what, in fine, our fate shall not ensure
Ensure no travails, ban nor bane nor bale.
Portugale mother'd me; the green, the dear
Alemquer homed me, but that air pollute
Which ever breathed in fleshly vase of me,
Made me the fishes' food in thee, thou brute
Sea! beating Habash-coast so greedy-fere,
And ah! so distant from my fair countree.