Now my weary lips I close;
Leave me, leave me, to repose.
Tim. Master mate, my call obey,
Rouse yourself once more, and say,
If in this ship a poor starved sinner
May sup; to day I had no dinner.
Mate. Sure, when you were on deck, Sir, you heard
Our cook a-scraping pots to leeward:
A sooty seaman blusters there,
Who never comb’d his lamp-black hair,