Be with my hopes abroad. I should be still
Plucking the grass, to know where sits the wind;
[019] Peering in maps for ports, and piers, and roads;
020 And every object that might make me fear
Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt
Would make me sad.
Salar.
My wind, cooling my broth,
Would blow me to an ague, when I thought
[024] What harm a wind too great at sea might do.