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XXXV
Like to the shipman in his brittle boat.
Tossèd aloft by the unconstant wind,
By dangerous rocks and whirling gulfs doth float,
Hoping at length the wishèd port to find;
So doth my love in stormy billows sail,
And passeth the gaping Scilla's waves,
In hope at length with Chloris to prevail
And win that prize which most my fancy craves,
Which unto me of value will be more
Then was that rich and wealthy golden fleece.
Which Jason stout from Colchos' island bore
With wind in sails unto the shore of Greece.
More rich, more rare, more worth her love I prize
Then all the wealth which under heaven lies.
