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An open place near the sea-shore.
Enter DIONYZA and LEONINE.
Dion. Thy oath remember; thou hast sworn to do it :
Leon. I'll do't; but yet she is a goodly creature.
Dion, fitter then the gods should have her. Here
I am resolv'd.
Enter MARINA, with a basket of flowers.
Mar. No, no, I will rob Tellus of her weed,
Dion. How now, Marina! why do you keep alone ?
A nurse of me. Lord ! how
Mar. No, I pray you;
Come, come ;
Care not for me ;
Well, I will go ;
Dion. Come, come, I know 'tis good for you.
I warrant you, madam.
Thanks, sweet madam.-
[Exit DIONYZA. Is this wind westerly that blows? Leon.
South-west. Mar. When I was born, the wind was north. E 3
Was't so ?
Leon, And when was this?
It was when I was born: Never was waves nor wind more violent.
Leon. Come, say your prayers speedily.
What mean you ?
Why, will you kill me?
Mar. Why would the have me kill'd ?
my death might yield her profit, or
You are well-favour'd, and your looks foreshow
I am sworn,
Enter Pirates, whilft MARINA is struggling,
1 Pirate. Hold, villain ! [LEONINE runs away. 2 Pirate. A prize! a prize!
3 Pirate. Half-part, mates, half-part. Come, let's have her aboard suddenly. [Exeunt Pirates with MARINA.
Leon. These roving thieves serve the great pirate Valdes; And they have seiz’d Marina. Let her go : There's no hope she'll return. I'll swear she's dead, And thrown into the sea.-- But I'll see further; Perhaps they will but please themselves upon her, Not
carry her aboard. If the remain, Whom they have ravilh'd, must by me be lain. (Exit.
Mitylene. A Room in a Brothel.
Enter PANDER, Bawd, and BOULT.
Pand. Search the market narrowly; Mitylene is full of gallants. We lost too much money this mart, by being too wenchless.
Bawd. We were never so much out of creatures. We have but poor three, and they can do no more than they can do; and with continual action are even as good as rotten,
Pand. Therefore let's have fresh ones, whate'er we pay for them. If there be not a conscience to be us'd in every trade, we shall never prosper.
Bawd. Thou say'st true: 'tis not the bringing up of poor bastards, as I think, I have brought up some eleven
Boult. Ay, to eleven, and brought them down again. But shall I search the market?
Bawd. What else, man? The stuff we have, a strong wind will blow it to pieces, they are so pitifully sodden.
Pand. Thou say'st true; they're too unwholesome o'con. science. The poor Transilvanian is dead, that lay with the little baggage.
Boult. Ay, the quickly poop'd him ; she made him roast-meat for worms :-but I'll go search the market.
[Exit Boult. Pand. Three or four thousand chequins were as pretty proportion to live quietly, and so give over.