_Sebast._ If ye do so, we shall curse your mercies. _Nic._ Rather put us to Sea again. _Raym._ Not so. Yet this I'll do, because ye say ye are _Christians_, Though I hardly credit it: bring in the boat, And all aboard again, but these two wretches; Yet leave 'em four dayes meat. If in that time, (For I will search all nookes of this strange Island) I can discover any tract of these men, Alive or dead, I'll bear ye off, and honor ye; If not, ye have found your Graves; so farewell. [_Exit._ _Nic._ That goodness dwells above, and knows us innocent, Comfort our lives, and at his pleasure quit us. _Sebast._ Come Cousin, come; old time will end our story: But no time (if we end well) ends our glory. [_Exit._ _Enter_ Rosella, Clarinda, Crocale, Hippolita, Juletta. _Ros._ Use 'em with all the austerity that may be, They are our slaves; turn all those pitties, Those tender reluctations that should become your sex, To stern anger; and when ye look upon 'em, Look with those eyes that wept those bitter sorrows, Those cruelties ye suffer'd by their Rapines. Some five dayes hence that blessed hour comes Most happy to me, that knit this hand to my dear husbands, And both our hearts in mutual bands. That hour Ladies. _Cla._ What of that hour? _Ros._ Why, on that hour daughter, And in the height of all our celebrations, Our dear remembrances of that dear Man, And those that suffer'd with him, our fair kinsmen, Their lives shall fall a sacrifice to vengeance, Their lives that ruin'd his; 'tis a full justice. I will look glorious in their bloods; And the most Noble spirit of _Sebastian_, That perisht by the pride of these _French_ Pirates, Shall smile in Heaven, and bless the hand that kill'd 'em. Look strictly all unto your prisoners; For he that makes a scape beyond my vengeance, Or entertains a hope by your fair usage; Take heed, I say, she that deceives my trust, Again take heed: her life, and that's but light neither; Her life in all the tortures my spirit can put on. _All._ We shall be careful. _Ros._ Do so. [_Ex. Rossella._ _Cla._ You are angry Mother, and ye are old too, Forgetting what men are: but we shall temper ye. How fare your prisoners, Ladies? in what formes Do they appear in their afflictions? _Jul._ Mine fare but poorly; For so I am commanded: 'tis none of their fault. _Cla._ Of what sort are they? _Jul._ They say they are Gentlemen. But they shew Mungrels. _Cla._ How do they suffer?