Book V, 204

No longer, Timo, do the timbers of your spruce corsair hold out against the strokes of Cypris’ oarsmen, but your back is bent like yard-arm lowered, and your grey forestays are slack, and your relaxed breasts are like flapping sails, and the belly of your ship is wrinkled by the tossing of the waves, and below she is all full of bilgewater and flooded with the sea, and her joints are shaky. Unhappy he who has to sail still alive across the lake of Acheron on this old coffin-galley.”