+Rose.+ I see You have heard of her, sir. Indeed she has Done penance thrice. +Ware.+ How say you, penance? +Rose.+ Yes, sir, and should have suffer'd---- +Ware.+ Carting, should she not? +Rose.+ The marshal had her, sir. +Ware.+ I sweat, I sweat! +Rose.+ She's of known practice, sir: the clothes she wears Are but her quarter's sins: she has no linen But what she first offends for. +Ware.+ O bless'd Heaven, Look down upon me! +Plot.+ Nay, sir, which is more, She has three children living; has had four. +Ware.+ How! children! Children, say you? +Plot.+ Ask him, sir. One by a Frenchman. +Rose.+ Another by a Dutch. +Plot.+ A third by a Moor, sir; born of two colours, Just like a serjeant's man. +Ware.+ Why, she has known, then, All tongues and nations? +Rose.+ She has been lain with farther Than ever Coriat travell'd, and lain in By two parts of the map, Afric and Europe, As if the state maintain'd her to allay The heat of foreigners. +Ware.+ O, O, O, O! +Plot.+ What ail you, sir? +Ware.+ O nephew, I am not well, I am not well! +Plot.+ I hope you are not married? +Ware.+ It is too true. +Rose.+ God help you, then! +Ware.+ Amen. Nephew, forgive me. +Rose.+ Alas! good gentleman! +Plot.+ Would you trust Bannswright, sir? +Ware.+ Nephew, in hell There's not a torment for him. O that I could But see that cheating rogue upon the rack now! I'd give a thousand pound for every stretch, That should enlarge the rogue through all his joints, And but just show him hell, and then recall His broken soul, and give him strength to suffer His torture often. I would have the rascal Think hanging a relief, and be as long A-dying as a chopp'd eel, that the devil Might have his soul by pieces. Who's here? a sailor? SCENE IV. _Enter +Cypher+, like a sailor._ +Cyph.+ Are you, sir, Warehouse the rich merchant? +Ware.+ Sir, my name is Warehouse. +Cyph.+ Then you are not, sir, So rich by two ships as you were. +Ware.+ How mean you? +Cyph.+ Your two ships, sir, that were now coming home From Ormus, are both cast away: the wreck And burden on the place was valued at Some forty thousand pound. All the men perish'd By th' violence of the storm: only myself Preserv'd my life by swimming, till a ship Of Bristol took me up, and brought me home To be the sad reporter. +Ware.+ Was nothing sav'd? +Cyph.+ Two small casks; one of blue figs, the other Of pickled mushrooms, which serv'd me for bladders, And kept me up from sinking. 'Twas a storm Which, sir, I will describe to you. The winds Rose of a sudden with that tempestuous force---- +Ware.+ Prythee, no more, I've heard too much. Would I Had been i' th' tempest.