SCENE IV.

_Enter +Cypher+, like a sailor._

+Cyph.+ Are you, sir, Warehouse the rich merchant?

+Ware.+ Sir, my name is Warehouse.

+Cyph.+ Then you are not, sir, So rich by two ships as you were.

+Ware.+ How mean you?

+Cyph.+ Your two ships, sir, that were now coming home From Ormus, are both cast away: the wreck And burden on the place was valued at Some forty thousand pound. All the men perish'd By th' violence of the storm: only myself Preserv'd my life by swimming, till a ship Of Bristol took me up, and brought me home To be the sad reporter.

+Ware.+ Was nothing sav'd?

+Cyph.+ Two small casks; one of blue figs, the other Of pickled mushrooms, which serv'd me for bladders, And kept me up from sinking. 'Twas a storm Which, sir, I will describe to you. The winds Rose of a sudden with that tempestuous force----

+Ware.+ Prythee, no more, I've heard too much. Would I Had been i' th' tempest.

+Cyph.+ Good your worship, give A poor seafaring man your charity To carry me back again. I'm come above A hundred mile to tell you this.

+Ware.+ Go in, And let my factor, if he be come in, Reward thee: stay and sup, too.

+Cyph.+ Thank your worship. [_Exit +Cypher+._

+Ware.+ Why should I not now hang myself? Or, if It be a fate that will more hide itself, And keep me from discredit, tie some weight About my neck to sink me to the bottom O' th' Thames, not to be found, [and so] to keep my body From rising up and telling tales. Two wrecks, And both worth forty thousand pound there! Why, That landed here were worth an hundred. I Will drown myself. I nothing have to do Now in this world but drown myself.

+Plot.+ Fie! these Are desperate resolutions. Take heart, sir; There may be ways yet to relieve you.

+Ware.+ How?

+Plot.+ Why, for your lost ships, say, sir, I should bring Two o' th' Assurance Office that should warrant Their safe return? 'Tis not known yet: would you Give three parts to secure the fourth?

+Ware.+ I'd give ten to secure one.

+Plot.+ Well, sir, and for your wife, Say I should prove it were no lawful match, And that she is another man's--you'd take The piece of service well?

+Ware.+ Yes, and repent That when I had so good an heir begot Unto my hand, I was so rash to aim At one of my own dotage.

+Plot.+ Say no more, sir; But keep the sailor, that he stir not. We'll About it straight. [_Exeunt +Plotwell+ and +Roseclap+._

+Ware.+ How much I was deceiv'd To think ill of my nephew, in whose revenge I see the heavens frown on me! Seas and winds Swell and rage for him against me; but I will Appease their furies, and be reconciled.