Ahab standing by the helm. Starbuck approaching him.

“We must send down the main-top-sail yard, sir. The band
is working loose, and the lee lift is half-stranded. Shall I strike
it, sir?”

“Strike nothing; lash it. If I had sky-sail poles, I'd sway
them up now.”

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“Sir?—in God's name!—sir?”

“Well.”

“The anchors are working, sir. Shall I get them inboard?”

“Strike nothing, and stir nothing, but lash everything. The
wind rises, but it has not got up to my table-lands yet. Quick,
and see to it.—By masts and keels! he takes me for the hunchbacked
skipper of some coasting smack. Send down my main-top-sail
yard! Ho, gluepots! Loftiest trucks were made for
wildest winds, and this brain-truck of mine now sails amid the
cloud-scud. Shall I strike that? Oh, none but cowards send
down their brain-trucks in tempest time. What a hooroosh
aloft there! I would e'en take it for sublime, did I not know
that the colic is a noisy malady. Oh, take medicine, take
medicine!”