Harrison vs Maskelyne: should the sea be solved by clock or by stars?

I built a clock that keeps London's time across an ocean's rage — carry it, and you carry your longitude in your pocket.

A pretty toy that stops when it pleases, Mr. Harrison; the heavens never stop, and my lunar tables are written across the whole sky.

Your Moon takes an hour of squinting and arithmetic — mine takes a glance, even from a boy on a pitching deck.

And when your spring rusts a thousand miles from any watchmaker, they'll look up — and thank the stars I taught them to read.