Act I, scene iii
A ruined wharf. Great hubbub and rushing about of persons. Enter Merchant and Bosun.
Bosun! Get thee to the warehouse quick!
A fleeter fleet awaits our King; and he
Would fifty weighty cargos of pure loam
With cry of 'Nonny-no!' forget, in love,
The cares that weigh the regal shoulderblades
Or cut in twain some other of that ilk,
Despairing of the wholesome split-tin loaf
That now awaits thee.
                           Sir, I beg to know
What strange intent is housed within the King's
Explosive edict, bruited now abroad,
Concerning matters better talked of low
Or not at all; and so I hold my tongue.
Exit Bosun
This man is fickle. Yet he will not stay
The mainsail badly in a windy course
I liken him to yonder stately swan,
That now his downy brood doth yet chastise,
While greeting them with happy praise and food;
But cygnets are obedient, the seaman
Leaves in midcourse of his hope's reply
An empty airless thought.
Enter a Chinaman.
                                      What ails thee, knave?
My porcelanity perhaps belies
My deeper thoughts.
                           The Orient's effects
Are sweeter than the Occident's neglects.
Enter Bosun.
The merchant finds in me such cause to weep
As I have found in Megalitha's love,
Who largely doth embrace me in strong kisses
Which spring, I fear, from wishes to advance
Her sense of bafflement. She knows no whit
Of what the depot holds of transport; ill-
Bethought her mind, as badly built this wharf.
He stamps on the rotting planks of the wharf, there is a loud cracking of wood, and he falls with a splash and a cry to the water below.

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