Steph. Fill us another round.
Vent. Look! Mustacho weeps. Hang losses, as long as we have brandy left!—Pr'ythee leave weeping.
Steph. He sheds his brandy out of his eyes: He shall drink no more.
Must. This will be a doleful day with old Bess. She gave me a gilt nutmeg at parting; that's lost too: But, as you say, hang losses! Pr'ythee fill again.
Vent. Beshrew thy heart, for putting me in mind of thy wife; I had not thought of mine else. Nature will shew itself, I must melt. I pr'ythee fill again: My wife's a good old jade, and has but one eye left; but she will weep out that too, when she hears that I am dead.
Steph. 'Would you were both hanged, for putting me in thought of mine!
Vent. But come, master, sorrow is dry: There's for you again.
Steph. A mariner had e'en as good be a fish as a man, but for the comfort we get ashore. O! for an old dry wench, now I am wet.
Must. Poor heart, that would soon make you dry again. But all is barren in this isle: Here we may lie at hull, till the wind blow nor' and by south, ere we can cry, a sail! a sail! a sight of a white apron: And, therefore, here's another sup to comfort us.
Vent. This isle's our own, that's our comfort; for the duke, the prince, and all their train, are perished.