Shad. Methinks ’twas horrible.
Andel. He that would not be an Arabian phœnix to burn in these sweet fires, let him live like an owl for the world to wonder at.
Amp. Why, brother, are not all these vanities?
Fort. Vanities? Ampedo, thy soul is made of lead, too dull, too ponderous to mount up to the incomprehensible glory that travel lifts men to.
Shad. My old master’s soul is cork and feathers, and being so light doth easily mount up.
Andel. Sweeten mine ears, good father, with some more.
Fort. When in the warmth of mine own country’s arms
We yawned like sluggards, when this small horizon
Imprisoned up my body, then mine eyes
Worshipped these clouds as brightest; but, my boys,
The glist’ring beams which do abroad appear
In other heavens,—fire is not half so clear.
Shad. Why, sir, are there other heavens in other countries?
Andel. Peace; interrupt him not upon thy life.