A Sea-port in Cyprus. An open place near the quay.
Nothing at all: it is a highwrought flood; I cannot, ’twixt the heaven and the main, Descry a sail.
Methinks the wind hath spoke aloud at land; A fuller blast ne’er shook our battlements: If it hath ruffian’d so upon the sea, What ribs of oak, when mountains melt on them, Can hold the mortise? What shall we hear of this?
A segregation of the Turkish fleet: For do but stand upon the foaming shore, The chidden billow seems to pelt the clouds; The wind-shaked surge, with high and monstrous mane, Seems to cast water on the burning bear, And quench the guards of the ever-fixed pole: I never did like molestation view On the enchafed flood.
If that the Turkish fleet Be not enshelter’d and embay’d, they are drown’d: It is impossible they bear it out.