_Ros._ Hear then my resolution: and labor not To add to what I'll grant, for 'twill be fruitless, You shall appear as good Angels to these wretched Men; In a small Boat wee'll pass o'er to 'em; And bring 'em comfort: if you like their persons, And they approve of yours: for wee'll force nothing; And since we want ceremonies, Each one shall choose a husband, and injoy His company a Month, but that expir'd, You shall no more come near 'em; if you prove fruitful, The Males ye shall return to them, the Females We will reserve our selves: this is the utmost, Ye shall e'er obtain: as ye think fit; Ye may dismiss this stranger, And prepare to morrow for the journey. [_Exit._ _Cla._ Come, Sir, Will ye walk? We will shew ye our pleasant Bowers, And something ye shall find to cheer your heart. _Alb._ Excellent Lady; Though 'twill appear a wonder one near starv'd Should refuse rest and meat, I must not take Your noble offer: I left in yonder desart A Virgin almost pin'd. _Cla._ Shee's not your Wife? _Alb._ No Lady, but my Sister ('tis now dangerous To speak truth) To her I deeply vow'd Not to tast food, or rest, if fortune brought it me, Till I bless'd her with my return: now if you please To afford me an easie passage to her, And some meat for her recovery, I shall live your slave: and thankfully She shall ever acknowledge her life at your service. _Cla._ You plead so well, I can deny ye nothing; I my self will see you furnisht; And with the next Sun visit and relieve thee. _Alb._ Ye are all goodness-- [_Exit._ _Actus Tertius. Scæna Prima._ _Enter severally_, Lamure, Franvile, Morillat. _Lam._ Oh! What a tempest have I in my stomach! How my empty guts cry out! my wounds ake, Would they would bleed again, that I might get Something to quench my thirst. _Fran._ O _Lamure_, the happiness my dogs had When I kept house at home! they had a storehouse, A storehouse of most blessed bones and crusts, Happy crusts: Oh! how sharp hunger pinches me! [_Exit_ Franvile. _Mor._ O my importunate belly, I have nothing To satisfie thee; I have sought, As far as my weak legs would carry me, Yet can find nothing: neither meat nor water; Nor any thing that's nourishing, My bellies grown together like an empty sachel. _Enter_ Franvile. _Lam._ How now, What news? _Mor._ Hast any meat yet? _Fran._ Not a bit that I can see; Here be goodly quarries, but they be cruel hard To gnaw: I ha got some mud, we'll eat it with spoons, Very good thick mud: but it stinks damnably; There's old rotten trunks of Trees too, But not a leafe nor blossome in all the Island. _Lam._ How it looks! _Mor._ It stinks too. _Lam._ It may be poyson.