Ant. Thou art perfect, then, our ship hath touch'd upon
The deserts of Bohemia?
Mar. Ay, [my lord;] and fear
[We have] landed in ill time: the skies look grimly
And threaten present blusters. In my conscience,
The heavens with that we have in hand are angry
And frown [upon's].
Ant. Their sacred wills be done! [Go, get] aboard;
Look to thy bark: I'll not be long before
I call [upon] thee.