The white sail of his soul has rounded The promontory - death.

My mother bore me in the southern wild, / And I am black, but O! my soul is white.

Have a care, therefore, where there is more sail than ballast.

We are such stuff as dreams are made of, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.

Here is my journey's end, here is my butt; And very sea-mark of my utmost sail.

Less judgment than wit is more sail than ballast