Alb. No, no; I am not so happy.
Tib. D'ye howl, nay, ye deserve it:
Base greedy rogues; come, shall we make an end of 'em?
Alb. They are our Countrey-men, for heavens sake spare 'em.
Alas, they are hurt enough, and they relent now. [Aminta above.
Aminta. Oh Captain, Captain.
Alb. Whose voice is that?
Tib. The Ladies.
Amint. Look Captain, look; ye are undone: poor Captain,
We are all undone, all, all: we are all miserable,
Mad wilful men; ye are undone, your Ship, your Ship.
Alb. What of her?
Amint. She's under sail, and floating;
See where she flies: see to your shames, you wretches:
These poor starv'd things that shew'd you Gold.
[Lam. and Franvile goes up to see the Ship.