Boatswain. Heigh, my hearts! cheerly, cheerly, my hearts! yare, yare! Take in the topsail! Tend to the master's whistle!–Blow, till thou burst thy wind, if room enough!

Gonzalo. Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground; long heath, brown furze, any thing. The wills above be done! but I would fain die a dry death.

Yet his means are in supposition: he hath an argosy bound to Tripolis, another to the Indies; I understand moreover upon the Rialto, he hath a third at Mexico, a fourth for England, and other ventures he hath, squandered abroad. But ships are but boards, sailors but men: there be landrats and water-rats, land-thieves and water-thieves,–I mean pirates,–and then there is the peril of waters, winds and rocks.

He does smile his face into more lines than are in the new map with the augmentation of the Indies.