PIS. Master Vandal, I confess I wrong you: But I'll but talk a word or two with him, And straight turn to you. [_To_ HEIGH.] Ah! sir, and how then, faith? HEIGH. Turn to us? turn to the gallows, if you will. HAR. 'Tis midsummer-moon with him: let him alone. He calls Ned Walgrave Master Vandal. WAL. Let it be Shrovetide, I'll not stay an inch. Master Pisaro. PIS. What should you fear? and, as I have vow'd before, So now again, my daughters shall be yours: And therefore I beseech you and your friends Defer your business till dinner-time; And what you'd say, keep it for table-talk. HAR. Marry, and I shall; a right good motion. Sirs, old Pisaro is grown kind of late, And in pure love hath bid us home to dinner. HEIGH. Good news, in truth. But wherefore art thou sad? WAL. For fear the slave, ere it be dinner-time, Remembering what he did, recall his word: For by his idle speeches you may swear, His heart was not confederate with his tongue. HAR. Tut, never doubt; keep stomachs till anon; And then we shall have cates to feed upon. PIS. Well, sir, since things do full so crossly out, I must dispose myself to patience: But for your business, do you assure yourself, At my repairing home from the Exchange, I'll set a helping hand unto the same. _Enter_ ALVARO _the Italian_. ALV. Buon giorno, signor padre: why be de melancholy so much and grave in you? a-wat news make you look so naught? PIS. Naught is too good an epithet by much For to distinguish such contrariousness. Hath not swift fame told you, our slow-sail'd ships Have been o'ertaken by the swift-sail'd galleys, And all my cared-for goods within the lurch Of that same caterpillar brood of Spain. ALV. Signor, si; how de Spaniola have almost tack de ship dat go for Turkey: my padre, hark you me one word: I have receive one letter from my factor de Venise, dat after one picolo battalion for one half-hour, de come a wind fra de north, and de sea go tumble here, and tumble dere, dat make de galleys run away for fear be almost drowned. PIS. How, sir? Did the wind rise at north, and sea wax rough, And were the galleys therefore glad to fly? ALV. Signor, si; and de ship go drite on de Isola de Candy. PIS. Wert thou not my Alvaro, my beloved: One whom I know does dearly count of me, Much should I doubt me, that some scoffing Jack Had sent thee, in the midst of all my griefs, To tell a feigned tale of happy luck. ALV. Will you no believe me? See dere den: see de letter.