97
But by the doughty arm and sword that chase Honour which man may proudly hail his own; in weary vigil, in the steely case, ’mid wrathsome winds and bitter billows thrown, suff’ering the frigid rigours in th’ embrace of South, and regions lorn, and lere, and lone; swall’owing the tainted rations’ scanty dole, salted with toil of body, moil of soul: