Montano.
What from the cape, can you discern at sea?

1 Gent.
Nothing at all, it is a high-wrought flood;
I cannot 'twixt the heaven and the main
Descry a sail.

Mont.
Methinks the wind hath spoke aloud at land;
A fuller blast ne'er shook our battlements;
If it hath ruffian'd so upon the sea,
What ribs of oak, when mountains melt on them,
Can hold the mortise? What shall we hear of this?

2 Gent.
A segregation of the Turkish fleet;
For do but stand upon the foaming shore,

The chiding billows seem to pelt the clouds;
The wind-shak'd surge, with high and monstrous main,
Seems to cast water on the burning Bear,
^{7 note}And quench the guards of th' ever-fixed pole.
I never did like molestation view
On the enchafed flood.

Mont.
If that the Turkish fleet
Be not inshelter'd and embay'd, they're drown'd;
It is impossible to bear it out.

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