Sebast. Yes, and make to harbor:
Nicu. Most miserable men; I grieve their fortunes.
Sebast. How happy had they been, had the Sea cover'd em!
They leap from one calamity to another;
Had they been drown'd, they had ended all their sorrows.
What shouts of joy they make!
Nicu. Alas poor wretches, had they but once experience
Of this Island, they'd turn their tunes to wailings.
Sebast. Nay, to curses.
That ever they set foot on such calamities;
Here's nothing but Rocks and barrenness,
Hunger, and cold to eat; here's no Vineyards
To cheer the heart of man, no Christal Rivers,
After his labour, to refresh his body,
If he be feeble; nothing to restore him,
But heavenly hopes, nature that made those remedies,
Dares not come here, nor look on our distresses,
For fear she turn wild, like the place, and barren.
Nicu. Oh Uncle, yet a little memory of what we were,
'Twill be a little comfort in our calamities;
When we were seated in our blessed homes,
How happy in our kindreds, in our families,
In all our fortunes!
Sebast. Curse on those French Pirats, that displanted us;
That flung us from that happiness we found there;
Constrain'd us to Sea, to save our lives, honors, and our riches,
With all we had, our kinsmen, and our jewels,
In hope to find some place free from such robbers,
Where a mighty storm sever'd our Barks,
That, where my Wife, my Daughter
And my noble Ladies that went with her,
Virgins and loving souls, to scape those Pirats.
Nicus. They are yet living; such goodness cannot perish.
Sebast. But never to me Cosin;
Never to me again; what bears their Flag-staves?
Nicu. The Arms of France sure;
Nay, doe not start, we cannot be more miserable;
Death is a cordial, now, come when it will.
Sebast. They get to shore apace, they'll flie as fast
When once they find the place; what's that which swims there?
Ni. A strong young man, Sir, with a handsom woman.
Hanging about his neck.
Sebast. That shews some honor;
May thy brave charity, what e'er thou art,
Be spoken in a place that may renown thee,
And not dye here.
Nicus. The Boat it seems turn'd over,
So forced to their shifts; yet all are landed:
They're Pirates on my life.
Sebast. They will not rob us;
For none will take out misery for riches:
Come Cosin, let's descend, and try their pities;
If we get off, a little hope walks with us;
If not, we shall but load this wretched Island
With the same shadows still, that must grow shorter.
Tib. Wet come ashore my mates, we are safe arrived yet.
Mast. Thanks to heavens goodness, no man lost;
The Ship rides fair too, and her leaks in good plight.
Alb. The weathers turn'd more courteous;
How does my Dear?
Alas, how weak she is, and wet!
Amint. I am glad yet, I scap'd with life;
Which certain, noble Captain, next to heavens goodness,
I must thank you for, and which is more,
Acknowledge your dear tenderness, your firm love
To your unworthy Mistriss, and recant too
(Indeed I must) those harsh opinions,
Those cruel unkind thoughts, I heapt upon ye;
Farther than that, I must forget your injuries.
So far I am ti'd, and fet'red to your service,
Believe me, I will learn to love.
Alb. I thank ye Madam,
And it shall be my practise to serve.
What cheer companions?
Tib. No great cheer Sir, a piece of souc'd Bisket
And halfe a hard egg; for the Sea has taken order;
Being young and strong, we shall not surfet Captain.
For mine own part, I'll dance till I'm dry;
Come Surgeon, out with your Clister-pipe,
And strike a Galliard.
Alb. What a brave day again!
And what fair weather, after so foul a storm!
La mure. I, an't pleas'd the Master he might ha seen
This weather, and ha' say'd our goods.
Alb. Never think on 'em, we have our lives and healths.
Lam. I must think on 'em, and think
'Twas most maliciously done to undoe me.
Fran. And me too, I lost all;
I ha'n't another shirt to put upon me, nor cloaths
But these poor rags; I had fifteen fair suits,
The worst was cut upon Taffaty.
Tib. I am glad you ha' lost, give me thy hand,
Is thy skin whole? art thou not purl'd with scabs?
No antient monuments of Madam Venus?
Thou hast a suit then will pose the cunning'st Tailor,
That will never turn fashion, nor forsake thee,
Till thy executors the Worms, uncase thee,
They take off glorious sutes Franvile: thou art happy,
Thou art deliver'd of 'em; here are no Brokers;
No Alchymists to turn 'em into Mettal;
Nor leather'd Captains, with Ladies to adore 'em;
Wilt thou see a Dog-fish rise in one of thy brave doublets,
And tumble like a tub to make thee merry,
Or an old Haddock rise with thy hatch'd sword
Thou paid'st a hundred Crowns for?
A Mermaid in a Mantle of your Worships,
Or