Sarl. Out, devill!
Mild. By thee I am made nothinge. Oh my giurles
You sweete and never faylinge marchandyse,
Comodityes in all coasts, worthy coyne,
Christiane or heathen! by whom in distresses
I coold have raysed a fortune! more undoone
That I should loose you thus!
Sarl. I knowe hee had rather
See halfe a hundred of them burnt[97] a land
Then one destroyde by water. But, oh Neptune,
I feare I have supt so much of thy salt brothe
Twill bringe mee to a feavour.
Mild. Oh my Palestra And fayre Scribonia, weare but you too safe, Yet som hope weare reserved me.
Sarl. I praye, Mildewe, When you so early to the bottom dyv'd, For whom weare you a fishinge?
Mild. Marry, for maydens; Woold I knewe howe to catch them. But my gutts, Howe they are sweld with sea brine!
Sarl. Tis good phisick To cure thee of the mangy.
Mild. Wretched man!
That have no more left of a magazine
Then these wett cloathes upon mee, nay the woorst
Of all I had and purposely put on
Only to lyv a shipp-board.
Sarl. Once to-day Thou wert in wealthe above mee, nowe the seas have Left us an equall portion.
Mild. In all the wourld I vowe I am not woorthe a lighted faggott Or a poore pan of charcoale.