Godfr.  Where[91] is my daynty damosella? where? 
Mee thought the water mett mee the half way
And lept up full three stepps to meete my pale. 
This ’tis when as a man goes willingly
About his busines.  Howe fresh a kisse will tast
From her whyte lipps! and every part besydes
From head to toe have bin so lately duckt
And rincht in the salt water.  Wheres my sweete? 
Not heare? no where? why, hoe, my whytinge mopp[92]
Late scapt from feedinge haddocks! ha, what, gone? 
Nay then, go thou too that shee sent mee for,
To him that next shall find thee! yet not so: 
This learned pale instructs mee by these letters
That it beelonges unto this monastery. 
And iff it shoold be lost by my default
I may be chardged with theft or sacriledge. 
No, I’l deliver it to the owners suer,[93]
And this the place.

    Enter the Bawde Mildewe and Sarlaboyse.

Mild.  Hee that woold stoody to bee miserable
Lett him forsake the land and putt to sea. 
What widgeing,[94] that hath any voyce at all,
Would trust his safety to a rotten planke
That hath on earthe sounde footinge!

Sarlab.  None but madmen.

Mild.  Why thou of none, thrifty and well advised,
Stryvest thou to make mee such, where’s now the gayne
And proffitt promist? the riche marchandyse
Of lust and whooringe? the greate usury
Got by the sale of wantons? these cursed jewelryes
With all the wealthe and treasure that I had,[95]
All perisht in one bottom, and all, all,
Through thy malicious counsell.

Sarlab.  Curse thy selfe. 
The trusty bark, ore laden with thy sinnes,
Baudryes, grosse lyes, thy theft and perjuryes
Beesydes the burdene of thy ill gott gooddes,
Not able to indure so greate a weight
Was forct to sinke beneathe them.[96]

Mild.  Out, dogge!

Sarl.  Out, devill!

Mild.  By thee I am made nothinge.  Oh my giurles
You sweete and never faylinge marchandyse,
Comodityes in all coasts, worthy coyne,
Christiane or heathen! by whom in distresses
I coold have raysed a fortune! more undoone
That I should loose you thus!

Sarl.  I knowe hee had rather
See halfe a hundred of them burnt[97] a land
Then one destroyde by water.  But, oh Neptune,
I feare I have supt so much of thy salt brothe
Twill bringe mee to a feavour.

Mild.  Oh my Palestra And fayre Scribonia, weare but you too safe, Yet som hope weare reserved me.

Sarl.  I praye, Mildewe, When you so early to the bottom dyv’d, For whom weare you a fishinge?

Mild.  Marry, for maydens; Woold I knewe howe to catch them.  But my gutts, Howe they are sweld with sea brine!

Sarl.  Tis good phisick To cure thee of the mangy.