Gos. 'Tis true Sir: what a voyce was here now? This was one passing bell, a thousand ravens Sung in that man now, to presage my ruins.
2 Mer. Goswin, good day, these winds are very constant.
Gos. They are so Sir; to hurt—
2 Mer. Ha' you had no letters Lately from England, nor from Denmark?
Gos. Neither.
2 Mer. This wind brings them; nor no news over land, Through Spain, from the Straights?
Gos. Not any.
2 Mer. I am sorry Sir. [Exit.
Gos. They talk me down: and as 'tis said of Vulturs
They scent a field fought, and do smell the carkasses
By many hundred miles: So do these, my wracks
At greater distances. Why, thy will Heaven
Come on, and be: yet if thou please, preserve me;
But in my own adventure, here at home,
Of my chast love, to keep me worthy of her,
It shall be put in scale 'gainst all ill fortunes:
I am not broken yet: nor should I fall,
Me thinks with less than that, that ruins all. [Exit.