[266] The paper as the body of my friend,
And every word in it a gaping wound,
Issuing life-blood. But is it true, Salerio?
[269] Have all his ventures fail’d? What, not one hit?
[270] From Tripolis, from Mexico, and England,
From Lisbon, Barbary, and India?
[272] And not one vessel scape the dreadful touch
Of merchant-marring rocks?
Saler.
Not one, my lord.