Mas. Now, tell me how you like him; whether now
He be that perfect man you credited?
Schol. Does the sea stagger ye?
Mas. Now ye have hit the nick.
Schol. Do ye fear the billows?
1st Gent. What ails him? who has stirred him?
Schol. Be not shaken,
Nor let the singing of the storm shoot through you:
Let it blow on, blow on! Let the clouds wrestle,
And let the vapours of the earth turn mutinous;