Come, let’s do so: For every minute is expectancy Of more arrivance.

Thanks, you the valiant of this warlike isle, That so approve the Moor! O, let the heavens Give him defence against the elements, For I have lost us him on a dangerous sea.

His bark is stoutly timber’d, his pilot Of very expert and approved allowance; Therefore my hopes, not surfeited to death, Stand in bold cure. A cry within “A sail, a sail, a sail!”

The town is empty; on the brow o’ the sea Stand ranks of people, and they cry “A sail!”

They do discharge their shot of courtesy: Our friends at least.

I pray you, sir, go forth, And give us truth who ’tis that is arrived.