Let her go!

There's no hope she will 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 she remain,

Whom they have ravish'd must by me be slain.

 

Exit.

 

 

[Scene II]

Enter the three bawds [Pander, Bawd, and Boult].

 

PAND. Boult!

BOULT. Sir?

PAND. Search the market narrowly, Meteline 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 they with continual action are even as good as rotten.

PAND. Therefore let's have fresh ones, what e'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 our 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 sayest true, there's two unwholesome, a' conscience. The poor Transylvanian is dead that lay with the little baggage.

BOULT. Ay, she quickly poop'd him, she made him roast-meat for worms. But I'll go search the market.

 

Exit.

 

PAND. Three or four thousand chequins were as pretty a proportion to live quietly, and so give over.

BAWD. Why to give over, I pray you? Is it a shame to get when we are old?

PAND. O, our credit comes not in like the commodity, nor the commodity wages not with the danger; therefore if in our youths we could pick up some pretty estate, 'twere not amiss to keep our door hatch'd. Besides, the sore terms we stand upon with the gods will be strong with us for giving o'er.

BAWD. Come, other sorts offend as well as we.

PAND. As well as we! ay, and better too; we offend worse. Neither is our profession any trade, it's no calling. But here comes Boult.

 

Enter Boult with the Pirates and Marina.

 

BOULT. Come your ways, my masters.