When yet the chiefe lord of it is the winde.
Bal. That may so chance to our state-merchants too;
Something performed, that hath not farre to goe.30
Ren. That's the maine point, my lord; insist on that.
Bal. But doth this fire rage further? hath it taken
The tender tynder of my wifes sere bloud?
Is shee so passionate?
Ren. So wilde, so mad,
Shee cannot live and this unwreakt sustaine.35
The woes are bloudy that in women raigne.