Franville.
Not a bit that I can see;
Here be goodly quarries, but they be cruel hard
To gnaw: I ha' got some mud, we'll eat it with spoons,
Very good thick mud; bot it stinks damnably,
There's old rotten trunks of trees too,
Bot not a leaf nor blossom in all the island.
Lamure.
How it looks!
Morillat.
It stinks too.
Lamure.
It may be poison.
Franville.
Let it be any thing;
So I can get it down. Why man,
Poison's a princely dish.
Morillat.
Hast thou no bisket?
No crumbs left in thy pocket? Here is my doublet,
Give me but three small crumbs.
Franville.
Not for three kingdoms,
If I were master of 'em. Oh, Lamure,
But one poor joint of mutton, we ha' scorn'd, man.
Lamure.
Thou speak'st of paradise;
Or but the snuffs of those healths,
We have lewdly at midnight flang away.
Morillat.
Ah! but to lick the glasses.
Doch alles dieses ist noch nichts gegen den folgenden Auftritt, wo der Schiffschirurgus dazu kommt.