_Sebast._ They will not rob us; For none will take out misery for riches: Come Cosin, let's descend, and try their pities; If we get off, a little hope walks with us; If not, we shall but load this wretched Island With the same shadows still, that must grow shorter. [_Ex._ _Enter_ Albert, Aminta, Tibalt, Morillat, Lamure, _Master_, Franvile, _Surgeon_, _Sailors_. _Tib._ Wet come ashore my mates, we are safe arrived yet. _Mast._ Thanks to heavens goodness, no man lost; The Ship rides fair too, and her leaks in good plight. _Alb._ The weathers turn'd more courteous; How does my Dear? Alas, how weak she is, and wet! _Amint._ I am glad yet, I scap'd with life; Which certain, noble Captain, next to heavens goodness, I must thank you for, and which is more, Acknowledge your dear tenderness, your firm love To your unworthy Mistriss, and recant too (Indeed I must) those harsh opinions, Those cruel unkind thoughts, I heapt upon ye; Farther than that, I must forget your injuries. So far I am ti'd, and fet'red to your service, Believe me, I will learn to love. _Alb._ I thank ye Madam, And it shall be my practise to serve. What cheer companions? _Tib._ No great cheer Sir, a piece of souc'd Bisket And halfe a hard egg; for the Sea has taken order; Being young and strong, we shall not surfet Captain. For mine own part, I'll dance till I'm dry; Come Surgeon, out with your Clister-pipe, And strike a Galliard. _Alb._ What a brave day again! And what fair weather, after so foul a storm! _La mure._ I, an't pleas'd the Master he might ha seen This weather, and ha' say'd our goods. _Alb._ Never think on 'em, we have our lives and healths. _Lam._ I must think on 'em, and think 'Twas most maliciously done to undoe me. _Fran._ And me too, I lost all; I ha'n't another shirt to put upon me, nor cloaths But these poor rags; I had fifteen fair suits, The worst was cut upon Taffaty. _Tib._ I am glad you ha' lost, give me thy hand, Is thy skin whole? art thou not purl'd with scabs? No antient monuments of Madam _Venus_? Thou hast a suit then will pose the cunning'st Tailor, That will never turn fashion, nor forsake thee, Till thy executors the Worms, uncase thee, They take off glorious sutes _Franvile_: thou art happy, Thou art deliver'd of 'em; here are no Brokers; No Alchymists to turn 'em into Mettal; Nor leather'd Captains, with Ladies to adore 'em; Wilt thou see a Dog-fish rise in one of thy brave doublets, And tumble like a tub to make thee merry, Or an old Haddock rise with thy hatch'd sword Thou paid'st a hundred Crowns for? A Mermaid in a Mantle of your Worships, Or a Dolphin in your double Ruffe?