…And unmoored souls may drift on stranger tides
Than those men know of, and be overthrown
By winds that would not even stir a hair…
William Ashbless (On Stranger Tides, Tim Powers)
Cut off from the land that bore us,
Betrayed by that land we find,
Where the brightest have gone before us,
And the dullest are most behind-
Stand, stand to your glasses, steady!
`T is all we have left to prize:
One cup to the dead already-
Hurrah for the next that dies!
Excerpt from East India, by Bartholomew Dowling
“Whats o’ clock?”
It wants to quarter to twelve,
And to-marrow’s doomsday.