_Sebast._ Nor will we be unthankful for this benefit, No Gentlemen, we'll pay for our deliverance; Look ye that plough the Seas for wealth and pleasures, That out-run day and night with your ambitions, Look on those heaps, they seem hard ragged quarries; Remove 'em, and view 'em fully. _Mast._ Oh heaven, they are Gold and Jewels. _Sebast._ Be not too hasty, here lies another heap. _Moril._ And here another, All perfect Gold. _Alb._ Stand farther off, you must not be your own carvers. _Lam._ We have shares, and deep ones. _Fran._ Yes Sir, we'll maintain't: ho fellow Sailors. _Lam._ Stand all to your freedoms; I'll have all this. _Fran._ And I this. _Tib._ You shall be hang'd first. _Lam._ My losses shall be made good. _Fran._ So shall mine, or with my sword I'll do't; All that will share with us, assist us. _Tib._ Captain, let's set in. _Alb._ This money will undo us, undo us all: _Sebast._ This Gold was the overthrow of my happiness; I had command too, when I landed here, And lead young, high, and noble spirits under me, This cursed Gold enticing 'em, they set upon their Captain, On me that own'd this wealth, and this poor Gentleman, Gave us no few wounds, forc'd us from our own; And then their civil swords, who should be owners, And who Lords over all, turn'd against their own lives, First in their rage, consum'd the Ship, That poor part of the Ship that scap'd the first wrack, Next their lives by heaps; Oh be you wise and careful: _Lam._ We'll ha' more: sirrah, come shew it. _Fran._ Or ten times worse afflictions than thou speak'st of. _Alb._ Nay, and ye will be dogs. [_Beats 'em out._ _Tib._ Let me come, Captain: This Golden age must have an Iron ending. Have at the bunch. [_He beats 'em off. Exit._ _Amint._ Oh _Albert_; Oh Gentlemen, Oh Friends. [_Exit._ _Sebast._ Come noble Nephew, if we stay here, we dye, Here rides their Ship, yet all are gone to th' spoil, Let's make a quick use. _Nicus._ Away dear Uncle. _Sebast._ This Gold was our overthrow. [_Exit._ _Nicus._ It may now be our happiness. _Enter_ Tibalt _and the rest_. _Tib._ You shall have Gold: yes, I'll cram it int'ye; You shall be your own carvers; yes, I'll carve ye. _Morill._ I am sore, I pray hear reason: _Tib._ I'll hear none. Covetous base minds have no reason; I am hurt my self; but whilst I have a leg left, I will so haunt your gilded souls; how d'ye Captain? Ye bleed apace, curse on the causers on't; Ye do not faint? _Alb._ No, no; I am not so happy. _Tib._ D'ye howl, nay, ye deserve it: Base greedy rogues; come, shall we make an end of 'em?