Condemn'd by Fate to way-ward Curse, Of Friends unkind, and empty Purse; Plagues worse than fill'd Pandora's Box, I took my leave of Albion's Rocks: With heavy Heart, concerned that I Was forc'd my Native Soil to fly, And the Old World must bid good-buy But Heav'n ordain'd it should be so, And to repine is vain we know: Freighted with Fools from Plymouth sound To Mary-Land our Ship was bound, Where we arrived in dreadful Pain, Shock'd by the Terrours of the Main; For full three Months, our wavering Boat, Did thro' the surley Ocean float, And furious Storms and threat'ning Blasts, Both tore our Sails and sprung our Masts; [Pg 2] Wearied, yet pleas'd we did escape Such Ills, we anchor'd at the (a) Cape; But weighing soon, we plough'd the Bay, To (b) Cove it in (c) Piscato-way, Intending there to open Store, I put myself and Goods a-shoar: Where soon repair'd a numerous Crew, In Shirts and Drawers of (d) Scotch-cloth Blue With neither Stockings, Hat nor Shooe. These Sot-weed Planters Crowd the Shoar, In hue as tawny as a Moor: Figures so strange, no God design'd, To be a part of Humane kind: But wanton Nature, void of Rest, Moulded the brittle Clay in Jest.

 

THE

Sot-weed Factor;

Or, a Voyage to

Maryland, &c.

 https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/21346/pg21346-images.html

 May Canniballs transported o'er the Sea
Prey on these Slaves, as they have done on me;
May never Merchant's trading Sails explore
This Cruel, this inhospitable Shoar;
But left abandon'd by the World to starve,
May they sustain the Fate they well deserve;
May they turn Savage, or as Indians Wild,
From Trade, Converse and Happiness exil'd;
Recreant to Heaven, may they adore the Sun,
And into Pagan Superstitions run
For Vengence ripe————————
May Wrath Divine then lay those Regions wast
Where no Man's Faithful, nor a Woman Chast.