Whilst, alas! the poor Æolus can't raise the wind!
Ti tol lol, &c.
Then the Thunderer's dumb; out of tune the Orpheus;
The Ceres has nothing at all to produce;
And the Eagle I warrant you, looks like a goose.
Ti tol lol, &c.
1st. Sail. Avast! look a-head there. Here they come, chased by a fleet of black devils.
Midsh. And the devil a fire have I to give them. We han't a grain of powder left. What must we do, lads?
2d. Sail. Do? Sheer off to be sure.
Midsh. [Reluctantly.] Well, if I must, I must. [Going to the other side, and holloing to Inkle, &c.] Yoho, lubbers! Crowd all the sail you can, d'ye mind me!