Lam.

      Oh! What a tempest have I in my stomach!

      How my empty guts cry out! my wounds ake,

      Would they would bleed again, that I might get

      Something to quench my thirst.

      Fran. O Lamure, the happiness my dogs had

      When I kept house at home! they had a storehouse,

      A storehouse of most blessed bones and crusts,

      Happy crusts: Oh! how sharp hunger pinches me!

      Mor. O my importunate belly, I have nothing

      To satisfie thee; I have sought,

      As far as my weak legs would carry me,

      Yet can find nothing: neither meat nor water;

      Nor any thing that's nourishing,

      My bellies grown together like an empty sachel.

      Lam. How now, What news?

      Mor. Hast any meat yet?

      Fran. Not a bit that I can see;

      Here be goodly quarries, but they be cruel hard

      To gnaw: I ha got some mud, we'll eat it with spoons,

      Very good thick mud: but it stinks damnably;

      There's old rotten trunks of Trees too,

      But not a leafe nor blossome in all the Island.

      Lam. How it looks!

      Mor. It stinks too.

      Lam. It may be poyson.

      Fran. Let it be any thing;

      So I can get it down: Why Man,

      Poyson's a Princely dish.

      Mor. Hast thou no Bisket?

      No crumbs left in thy pocket: here's my dublet,

      Give me but three small crumbes.

      Fran. Not for three Kingdoms,

      If I were master of 'em: Oh Lamure,

      But one poor joynt of Mutton: we ha scorn'd (Man).

      Lam. Thou speak'st of Paradis.

      [Fran.] Or but the snuffes of those healths,

      We have lewdly at midnight flang away.

      Mor. Ah! but to lick the Glasses.

      Fran. Here comes the Surgeon: What

      Hast thou discover'd? smile, smile, and comfort us.

      Sur. I am expiring;

      Smile they that can: I can find nothing Gentlemen,

      Here's nothing can be meat, without a miracle.

      Oh that I had my boxes, and my lints now,

      My stupes, my tents, and those sweet helps of nature,

      What dainty dishes could I make of 'em.

      Mor. Hast ne'er an old suppository?

      Sur. Oh would I had Sir.

      Lam. Or, but the paper where such a Cordial

      Potion, or Pills hath been entomb'd.

      Fran. Or the best bladder where a cooling-glister.

      Mor. Hast thou no searcloths left?

      Nor any old pultesses?

      Fran. We care not to what it hath been ministred.

      Sur. Sure I have none of these dainties Gentlemen.

      Fran. Where's the great Wen

      Thou cut'st from Hugh the saylers shoulder?

      That would serve now for a most Princely banquet.

      Sur. I, if we had it Gentlemen.

      I flung it over-board, slave that I was.

      Lam. A most unprovident villain.

      Sur. If I had any thing that were but supple now!

      I could make Sallads of your shoos Gentlemen,

      And rare ones: any thing unctious.

      Mor. I, and then we might fry the soals i'th' Sun.

      The soals would make a second dish.

      Lam. Or, souce 'em in the salt-water,

      An inner soal well souc'd.

      Fran. Here comes the Woman;

      It may be she has meat, and may relieve us,

      Let's withdraw, and mark, and then be ready,

      She'll hide her store else, and so cozen us.

      Amin. How weary, and how hungry am I,

      How feeble, and how faint is all my body!

      Mine eyes like spent Lamps glowing out, grow heavy,

      My sight forsaking me, and all my spirits,

      As if they heard my passing bell go for me,

      Pull in their powers, and give me up to destiny,

      Oh! for a little water: a little, little meat,

      A little to relieve me ere I perish:

      I had whole floods of tears awhile that nourisht me,

      But they are all consum'd for thee dear Albert;

      For thee they are spent, for thou art dead;

      Merciless fate has swallow'd thee.

      Oh – I grow heavy: sleep is a salve for misery;

      Heaven look on me, and either take my life,

      Or make me once more happy.

      Lam. Shee's fast asleep already,

      Why should she have this blessing, and we wake still,

      Wake to our wants?

      Mor. This thing hath been our overthrow,

      And all these biting mischiefs that fall on us

      Are come through her means.

      Fran.