Cyph. Are you, sir, Warehouse the rich merchant?
Ware. Sir, my name is Warehouse.
Cyph. Then you are not, sir,
So rich by two ships as you were.
Ware. How mean you?
Cyph. Your two ships, sir, that were now coming home
From Ormus, are both cast away: the wreck
And burden on the place was valued at
Some forty thousand pound. All the men perish'd
By th' violence of the storm: only myself
Preserv'd my life by swimming, till a ship
Of Bristol took me up, and brought me home
To be the sad reporter.
Ware. Was nothing sav'd?
Cyph. Two small casks; one of blue figs, the other
Of pickled mushrooms, which serv'd me for bladders,
And kept me up from sinking. 'Twas a storm
Which, sir, I will describe to you. The winds
Rose of a sudden with that tempestuous force——
Ware. Prythee, no more, I've heard too much. Would I
Had been i' th' tempest.
Cyph. Good your worship, give
A poor seafaring man your charity
To carry me back again. I'm come above
A hundred mile to tell you this.
Ware. Go in,
And let my factor, if he be come in,
Reward thee: stay and sup, too.