All the infections that the sun sucks up From bogs, fens, flatss on prosper fall, and make him By inchmal a disease! His spirits hear me, and yet I needs must curse. but they'll nor pinch, Fright me with urchin shows, pitch me i' th' mire, Nor lead me like a firebrand, in the dark Out of way, unless he bid' em. but For every trifle are they set upon me,
Here's neither bush nor shrub to bear off any weather at all and another storm brewing; I hear it sing i' th' wind. yond same black cloud, yond huge one, looks loike a foul bombard that would shed his liqour. if it should thumder as it did before a know not where to hide my head
Do not torment me!o!
I shall no more to sea, to sea Here shall I die ashore.This is a very scurvy tune to sing at a man,s funeral Well, here,s my confort.The master, the swabber the boatswain and i, loved mall, meg, and marian and margery but none of us cared for kate. for she had a tongue with a tang would cry to a sailor "Go hang!" she loved not the savor of tar nor of pitch; yet tailor might scratch her where'er she did itch Then to sea boys, and le her go hang! This is scurvy tune too;but here's my comfort