Nothing at all. It is a high-wrought flood. I cannot ’twixt the heaven and the main descry a sail.
Methinks the wind hath spoke aloud at land, A fuller blast ne'er shook our battlements. If it hath ruffianed so upon the sea What ribs of oak, when mountains melt on them, Can hold the mortise? What shall we hear of this?
A segregation of the Turkish fleet. For do but stand upon the foaming shore, the chidden billow seems to pelt the clouds, the wind-shaked surge, with high and monstrous mane, seems to cast water on the burning bear, and quench the guards of th' ever-fixèd pole. I never did like molestation view On the enchafèd flood.
Pray heavens he be, for I have served him, and the man commands like a full soldier. Let’s to the seaside, ho! As well to see the vessel that’s come in as to throw out our eyes for brave Othello, even till we make the main and th' aerial blue an indistinct regard.
If that the Turkish fleet be not ensheltered and embayed, they are drowned. It is impossible they bear it out.
Enter a THIRD GENTLEMAN
The ship is here put in, a Veronesa. Michael Cassio, lieutenant to the warlike Moor Othello, is come on shore. The Moor himself at sea and is in full commission here for Cyprus.
News, lads, Our wars are done! The desperate tempest hath so banged the Turks, that their designment halts. A noble ship of Venice hath seen a grievous wreck and sufferance on most part of their fleet.
How? Is this true?
But this same Cassio, though he speak of comfort touching the Turkish loss, yet he looks sadly and prays the Moor be safe. For they were parted with foul and violent tempest.
I am glad on ’t. 'Tis a worthy governor.
Come, let’s do so. For every minute is expectancy of more arrivance.