Page:The heptalogia, or, The seven against sense - a cap with seven bells (IA heptalogiaorseve00swin).pdf/42

 A man's own yacht, blown—What? off land? Tack back, or veer round here, then—queer! Reef points, though—understand?

I'm blest if I do. Sigh? be blowed! Love's doves make break life's ropes, eh? Tropes! Faith's brig, baulked, sides caulked, rides at road; Hope's gropes befogged, storm-dogged and bogged— Clogged, water-logged, her load!

Stowed, by Jove, right and tight, away! No show now how best plough sea's brow, Wrinkling—breeze quick, tease thick, ere day,