Sea. Hear you that, sir?
Ware. Still I suspect.
Mis. Hol. I warrant you, this fish
Will shortly be in a ballad.
Sale. Begin, boy.
Song.
We show no monstrous crocodile,
Nor any prodigy of Nile;
No Remora that stops your fleet,[228]
Like serjeants gallants in the street;
No sea-horse which can trot or pace,
Or swim false galop, post, or race:
For crooked dolphins we not care,
Though on their back a fiddler were:
The like to this fish, which we show,
Was ne'er in Fish Street, old or new;
Nor ever serv'd to th' sheriff's board,
Or kept in souse for the Mayor Lord.
Had old astronomers but seen
This fish, none else in heaven had been.
Mis. Hol. The song has waken'd him; look, he stirs!
Tim. O captain, pox—take—you—captain.
Mis. Sea. Hark, he speaks!
Tim. O—my—stomach——