Exeunt.
Alarum. Fight at Sea. Ordnance goes off.
Enter Lieutenant, Suffolke, and others.
Lieu. The gaudy blabbing and remorsefull day,
Is crept into the bosome of the Sea:
And now loud houling Wolues arouse the Iades
That dragge the Tragicke melancholy night:
Who with their drowsie, slow, and flagging wings
Cleape dead-mens graues, and from their misty Iawes,
Breath foule contagious darknesse in the ayre:
Therefore bring forth the Souldiers of our prize,
For whilst our Pinnace Anchors in the Downes,
Heere shall they make their ransome on the sand,
Or with their blood staine this discoloured shore.
Maister, this Prisoner freely giue I thee,
And thou that art his Mate, make boote of this:
The other Walter Whitmore is thy share
1.Gent. What is my ransome Master, let me know
Ma. A thousand Crownes, or else lay down your head
Mate. And so much shall you giue, or off goes yours
Lieu. What thinke you much to pay 2000. Crownes,
And beare the name and port of Gentlemen?
Cut both the Villaines throats, for dy you shall:
The liues of those which we haue lost in fight,
Be counter-poys'd with such a pettie summe
1.Gent. Ile giue it sir, and therefore spare my life
2.Gent. And so will I, and write home for it straight
Whitm. I lost mine eye in laying the prize aboord,
And therefore to reuenge it, shalt thou dye,
And so should these, if I might haue my will