O Ye, who in some pretty little boat, 1219 Eager to listen, have been following Behind my ship, that singing sails along, Turn back to look again upon your shores; Do not put out to sea, lest peradventure, In losing me, you might yourselves be lost. The sea I sail has never yet been passed; Minerva breathes, and pilots me Apollo, 1220 And Muses nine point out to me the Bears. Ye other few who have the neck uplifted Betimes to th’ bread of Angels upon which 1221 One liveth here and grows not sated by it, Well may you launch upon the deep salt-sea Your vessel, keeping still my wake before you Upon the water that grows smooth again. Those glorious ones who unto Colchos passed 1222 Were not so wonder-struck as you shall be, When Jason they beheld a ploughman made! The con-created and perpetual thirst 1223