He, good soul, must have his potion:
Thirst can reach the sons of ocean.
Unwilling I my lips unclose;
Leave me, leave me, to repose.
Tim. Once again my call obey,
Master mate, awake, and say,
Which way I to bed may go;
Pray have ye one for me or no?
Mate. There on the floor mattress and bolster are,
Who wish for more may ask the upholsterer.