_1 Gent._ Is there no unkindness You have conceiv'd from any friend or parent? Or scorn from what ye lov'd? _Schol._ No, truely Sir: I never yet was master of a faith So poor, and weak, to doubt my friend or kindred, And what love is, unless it lie in learning I think I am ignorant. _1 Gent._ This man is perfect, A civiller discourser I ne'r talk'd with. _Mast._ You'l find it otherwise. _2 Gent._ I must tell ye true, Sir, I think ye keep him here to teach him madness. Here's his discharge from my Lord Cardinal; And come Sir, go with us. _Schol._ I am bound unto ye, And farewel Master. _Master._ Farewel _Stephano_, Alas poor man. _1 Gent._ What flaws, and whirles of weather, Or rather storms have been aloft these three daies; How dark, and hot, and full of mutiny! And still grows louder. _Mast._ It has been stubborn weather. _2 Gent._ Strange work at Sea, I fear me there's old tumbling. _1 Gent._ Bless my old Unkles Bark, I have a venture. _2 Gent._ And I more than I would wish to lose. _Schol._ Do you fear? _2 Gent._ Ha! how he looks! _Mast._ Nay, mark him better Gentlemen. _2 Gent._ Mercy upon me: how his eyes are altered! _Mast._ Now tell me how ye like him: whether now He be that perfect man ye credited? _Schol._ Do's the Sea stagger ye? _Mast._ Now ye have hit the nick. _Schol._ Do ye fear the billows? _1 Gent._ What ails him? who has stir'd him? _Schol._ Be not shaken, Nor let the singing of the storm shoot through ye, Let it blow on, blow on: let the clouds wrastle, And let the vapours of the earth turn mutinous, The Sea in hideous mountains rise and tumble Upon a Dolphins back, I'le make all tremble, For I am _Neptune_. _Mast._ Now what think ye of him? _2 Gent._ Alas poor man. _Schol._ Your Bark shall plough through all, And not a Surge so saucy to disturb her. I'le see her safe, my power shall sail before her. _Down ye angry waters all,_ _Ye loud whistling whirlewinds fall;_ _Down ye proud Waves, ye storms cease;_ _I command ye, be at peace._ _Fright not with your churlish Notes,_ _Nor bruise the Keel of Bark that flotes:_ _No devouring Fish come nigh,_ _Nor Monster in my Empery,_ _Once shew his head, or terror bring;_ _But let the weary Saylor sing:_ _Amphitrite with white arms_ _Strike my Lute, I'le sing Charms._ _Mast._ He must have Musick now: I must observe him, His fit will grow too full else. [_Musick, Song._ _2 Gent._ I must pity him. _Mast._ Now he will in himself most quietly, And clean forget all, as he had done nothing. _1 Gent._ We are sorry, Sir: and we have seen a wonder; From this hour we'll believe, and so we'll leave ye. [_Ex._ _Ped._ This was a strange fit. _Mast._ Did ye mark him, Sir?