_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.