I drown, alas, alas! I will give eighteen hundred thousand crowns to anyone that will set me on shore, all berayed and bedaubed as I am now.

If ever there was a man in my country in the like pickle.

Confiteor, alas! a word or two of testament or codicil at least.

A thousand devils seize the cuckoldy cow-hearted mongrel, cried Friar John.

Ods-belly, art thou talking here of making thy will now we are in danger, and it behoveth us to bestir our stumps lustily, or never?
Wilt thou come, ho devil?
Midshipman, my friend; O the rare lieutenant; here Gymnast, here on the poop.