Wretches of Troy, envied of the windes,
That crave such favour at your honors feete,
As poore distressed miserie may pleade:
Save, save, O save our ships from cruell fire,
That doe complaine the wounds of thousand waves,
And spare our lives whom every spite pursues.
We come not we to wrong your Libian Gods,
Or steale your houshold lares from their shrines:
Our hands are not prepar'd to lawles spoyle,
Nor armed to offend in any kind:
Such force is farre from our unweaponed thoughts,
Whose fading weale of victorie forsooke,
Forbids all hope to harbour neere our hearts.
