Act II

Beseech you, sir, be merry; you have cause,

So have we all, of joy; for our escape

Is much beyond our loss. Our hint of woe

Is common; every day some sailor’s wife,

The masters of some merchant and the merchant

Have just our theme of woe; but for the miracle,

I mean our preservation, few in millions

Can speak like us: then wisely, good sir, weigh

Our sorrow with our comfort.

Prithee, peace.

He receives comfort like cold porridge.

The visitor will not give him o’er so.

Look he’s winding up the watch of his wit; by and by it will strike.

Sir⁠—