And you, cuckold sailor, going to get down to Acheron, no more walking the barn-forced steadings: father more powerful than when you were a judge of three goddesses' beauty. But that stable you should keep the sharks in the ass and read, and instead of a good feed manger and sheep flock and natural press industry people on the boat and oars in Phereclus. Out you two thorough fares and levels of Gytheion, where brisk-fallen cliffs drop large teeth, and pine-ship anchor against the flood, you shall rest in a fleet of nine-sail playing.
