Amint. Gentle Master.
Mast. Clap this woman under hatches.
Alb. Prethe speak mildly to her.
Amint. Can no help?
Mast. None that I know.
Amint. No promise from your goodness.
Mast. Am I a God? for heavens sake stow this [woman].
Tib. Go: take your gilt [Prayer-Book];
And to your business; wink and die,
There's an old Haddock staies for ye.
Amint. Must I die here in all the frights[, the] terrors,
The thousand several shapes death triumphs in?
No friend to counsel me?
Alb. Have peace sweet Mistriss.