Where should this wealth be hid--his cave shows none: A prayer book and a cross, a string of beads, A bed of moss, a cap, an earthen jug, And some few goat skins, furnish out his cave: But still this humble guise of poverty Vast sums of splendid riches may conceal: The flooring of his den is a loose sand-- Searching a fathom deep may shew strange things, While we, so long pursuing, hit on fortune.-- Perhaps this hermit is some bloody pirate, Who having plundered friends and foes, alike, Has brought his booty here, to bury it. _First Mariner_ Lo! there he comes, driving his goats before him: He means to fence them from the tempest's rage Under the shelter of those tufted cedars: It does, indeed, appear most possible, That in this cavern rests his plundered wealth: When sleep has locked his senses in repose We'll seize him on his couch, and binding him, Cast him from yonder jutting promontory That hangs a hundred fathoms o'er the deep-- Thus, shall his fate prevent discovery. _Second Mariner_ Your project pleases me--it is most wrong That such a savage should enjoy such hoards Of useful wealth, he has not heart to use:-- He builds no ships, employs no mariners; But, like a miser, hides the ill-gotten store, And had he died before we wandered hither His gold had perished, and none been the wiser. _Third Mariner_ While you observe his motions, fellow sufferers, Of twisted bark I'll make a sett of thongs Wherewith to bind him at the midnight hour, Lest waking, he should struggle to be free And slip our hands before we gain the summit From whence we mean to plunge his tawny carcase:-- There, there he comes--"Now, hermit, now befriend us, "For cruel, merciless hunger gnaws our vitals, "And every mischief that can man dishearten "Is ripe to drive us into desperation!" _Hermit_ Have patience, till from yonder arched grotto I bring my bowls of milk, and seasoned roots, And fruits I plucked before the day was high: Now, friends, enjoy my hospitality: All's at your service, wretched shipwrecked men; And when you've satisfied the rage of hunger Repose on these soft skins; your sea-beat limbs Demand the aid of kind refreshing sleep: I'll to my evening prayers, as I am wont, And early dreams;--for travelling o'er the hills, And pelted by the storm the whole day past, My knees grow feeble, and I wish for rest. (_Exit_) _Second Mariner_ Yes, yes--first pray, and then repose in peace, Hermit of Saba, ne'er to wake again! Or should you wake, it must be in convulsions, Tossed from the peak of yonder precipice, Transfixt on pointed rocks, most bloodily. _Third Mariner_