Boatswain!

Here, master: what cheer?

Good! Speak to the mariners: fall to ’t yarely, or we run ourselves

aground: bestir, bestir.

Heigh, my hearts! cheerly, cheerly, my hearts! yare, yare! Take in the

topsail. Tend to th’ master’s whistle. Blow till thou burst thy wind,

if room enough.

Good boatswain, have care. Where’s the master?

Play the men.

I pray now, keep below.

Where is the master, boson?

Do you not hear him? You mar our labour: keep your cabins: you do

assist the storm.

Nay, good, be patient.

When the sea is. Hence! What cares these roarers for the name of king?

To cabin! silence! Trouble us not.

Good, yet remember whom thou hast aboard.

None that I more love than myself. You are a counsellor: if you can

command these elements to silence, and work the peace of the present,

we will not hand a rope more. Use your authority: if you cannot, give

thanks you have lived so long, and make yourself ready in your cabin

for the mischance of the hour, if it so hap.—Cheerly, good hearts!—Out

of our way, I say.

I have great comfort from this fellow. Methinks he hath no drowning

mark upon him. His complexion is perfect gallows. Stand fast, good

Fate, to his hanging! Make the rope of his destiny our cable, for our

own doth little advantage! If he be not born to be hang’d, our case is

miserable.

Down with the topmast! yare! lower, lower! Bring her to try wi’ th’

maincourse.

Yet again! What do you here? Shall we give o’er, and drown? Have you a

mind to sink?

A pox o’ your throat, you bawling, blasphemous, incharitable dog!

Work you, then.

Hang, cur, hang, you whoreson, insolent noisemaker! We are less afraid

to be drowned than thou art.

I’ll warrant him for drowning, though the ship were no stronger than a

nutshell, and as leaky as an unstanched wench.

Lay her a-hold, a-hold! Set her two courses: off to sea again: lay her

off.

All lost! to prayers, to prayers! all lost!

What, must our mouths be cold?

The King and Prince at prayers! Let’s assist them,

For our case is as theirs.

I am out of patience.

We are merely cheated of our lives by drunkards.

This wide-chapp’d rascal—would thou might’st lie drowning

The washing of ten tides!

He’ll be hang’d yet,

Though every drop of water swear against it,

And gape at wid’st to glut him.

_A confused noise within: _“Mercy on us!”—

“We split, we split!”—“Farewell, my wife and children!”—

“Farewell, brother!”—“We split, we split, we split!”

Let’s all sink wi’ th’ King.

Let’s take leave of him.

Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren

ground. Long heath, brown furze, anything. The wills above be done! but

I would fain die a dry death.