Both. Agreed, agreed!
Enter Trincalo, with a great bottle, half drunk.
Vent. How! Trincalo, our brave boatswain!
Must. He reels: Can he be drunk with sea-water?
Trinc. [sings.] I shall no more to sea, to sea, Here I shall die ashore.
This is a very scurvy tune to sing at a man's funeral; but here's my comfort.
[Drinks.
Sings.
The master, the swabber, the gunner, and I, The surgeon, and his mate, Loved Mall, Meg, and Marian, and Margery, But none of us cared for Kate. For she had a tongue with a twang, Would cry to a sailor, Go hang!— She loved not the savour of tar, nor of pitch, Yet a tailor might scratch her where'er she did itch.
This is a scurvy tune too; but here's my comfort again.
[Drinks.
Steph. We have got another subject now: Welcome, welcome, into our dominions!