Godfrey.  The fower winds you meane; blusteringe fellowes they are.  Preye God all be well at sea, for I am sure the roofes tyles and ridges have payde for it a shewer.[64]

Ashb.  The very rafters of the howses bend;
Some breake and are demolisht; barnes blowne downe;
The very chimneyes rattle ore our heads;
The strongest buildinges tremble just as if
Theire is above a tempest, so belowe
There weare a fearefull earth-quake.

Godfrey.  All our howses
Are nothinge nowe but windowes, broad bay windowes
So spatious that carts laded may drive throughe
And neather loush oth’ topp or eathere syde. 
Lights every where, we shall have lightnes inoughe: 
Heares stupid woork for daubers!

Ashburne.  We are forct All to forsake the villaige and to fly Unto the feilds for succor.

Godfrey.  Syr, it putt me
In minde of the greate King Agathocles,
Who was, as I have heard you oft relate,
Brain’d with a Tyle.  Why may not meaner men
Then feare the fall of brick batts?

    Enter Raphael, Treadway, and the Clowne.

Treadway.  A strange night And full of terror; yet, thanks heaven, well past.

Raphael.  Oh, but I feare the greater storms to come, A gust that will more shake mee.

Clowne.  More, quothe hee; I can scarce see howe that well can bee, for I can assure you the garrett that I laye in putt mee in mind of myne infancye, for I lye all the night longe as if I had bin rockt in a cradle.

Raphael.  Oh, frend, I feare this false and perjur’d slave, That hathe not kept apointment, hath deceiv’d mee Boathe of my coyne and pretious marchandyse.

Clowne.  Did you ever looke for better from a Judas [?] of his he[yre]?[65]

Raphael.  Which if hee have—­

Clowne.  Why then hee hathe, and the mends is in y’r owne hands:  that’s all that I can say too’t.

Raphael.  Hee hathe undone mee dubly.

Treadway.  Hope the best. 
Perhapps the threatninge weather kept him backe: 
Itt was a trobled skye, the soon set blusheing,
The rack cam swiftly rushing from the west;
And these presadges of a future storme,
Unwillinge for to trust her tendernes
Unto such feares, might make him fayle his hower;
And yet with purpose what hee slack’t last night
Howe to make goodd this morninge.

Raphael.  Oh you tent[66]
My woonds too gently, dally with my dowbts
And flutter my trewe feares:  the even was calme,
The skye untrobled, and the soon went downe
Without disturbance in a temperate ayr. 
No, not the least conjecture coold be made
Of such a suddeine storme, of which the woorld
Till after midnight was not sensible. 
His hower was supper, and in faylinge that—­

Clowne.  Ey, nowe begin I to feare too for thee.  Breake his woord if it bee to com to dinner or supper!  I’l never trust his bond for the valewe of a threepenny ordenarye after.