[My brave] spirit!
Who was so firm, so constant, that this coil
Would not infect his reason?
Ari.
Not a soul
But felt a fever of the [mad], and play’d
210 Some tricks of desperation. All but mariners
Plunged in the foaming brine, and quit [the vessel,]
[Then all afire with me: the king’s son], Ferdinand,
With hair up-staring,—then like reeds, not hair,—