soul.
Give me some drink; and bid the apothecary
Bring the strong poison that I bought of him.
O thou eternal Mover of the heavens.
Look with a gentle eye upon this wretch!
O, beat away the busy meddling fiend
That lays strong siege unto this wretch's soul.
And from his bosom purge this black despair!
See, how the pangs of death do make him grin!
Disturb him not; let him pass peaceably.
Peace to his soul, if God's good pleasure be!
Lord cardinal, if thou think'st on heaven's bliss,
Hold up thy hand, make signal of thy hope.
He dies, and makes no sign. O God, forgive him!
So bad a death argues a monstrous life.
Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all.
Close up his eyes and draw the curtain close;
And let us all to meditation.
The gaudy, blabbing and remorseful day
Is crept into the bosom of the sea;
And now loud-howling wolves arouse the jades
That drag the tragic melancholy night;
Who, with their drowsy, slow and flagging wings,
Clip dead men's graves and from their misty jaws
Breathe foul contagious darkness in the air.
Therefore bring forth the soldiers of our prize;
For, whilst our pinnace anchors in the Downs,
Here shall they make their ransom on the sand,
Or with their blood stain this discolour'd shore.
Master, this prisoner freely give I thee;
And thou that art his mate, make boot of this;
The other, Walter Whitmore, is thy share.
What is my ransom, master? let me know.
A thousand crowns, or else lay down your head.
And so much shall you give, or off goes yours.
What, think you much to pay two thousand crowns,
And bear the name and port of gentlemen?
Cut both the villains' throats; for die you shall:
The lives of those which we have lost in fight
Be counterpoised with such a petty sum!
I'll give it, sir; and therefore spare my life.
And so will I and write home for it straight.
I lost mine eye in laying the prize aboard,
And therefore to revenge it, shalt thou die;
And so should these, if I might have my will.
Be not so rash; take ransom, let him live.
Look on my George; I am a gentleman:
Rate me at what thou wilt, thou shalt be paid.
And so am I; my name is Walter Whitmore.
How now! why start'st thou? what, doth
death affright?
Thy name affrights me, in whose sound is death.
A cunning man did calculate my birth
And told me that by water I