SONG.
[Good Lord! when I think of the storm]
SUSAN.
What a pretty hurricane about our ears! Well
thank Heaven, and out good old ship, for his
holding his head so long above water, we are not got
down into Davy Jone's locker.
Good Lord! when I think of the storm,
And, old Neptune, thy horrible spleen,
That endeavour'd to make of this form
A feast for the fish at nineteen!
It had giv'n my poor heart some alarms,
As well as some grief to my spark,
To have found, that, instead of his arms,
I had fill'd up the mouth of a shark.
Dear Neptune, a sweetheart is mine—
Not a handsomer England possesses:
Shouldst thou bury these limbs in thy brine,
They will lose a whole world of caresses.
Oh, afford me one glance of my lover—
Oh, grant but one kiss from my swain;
Thou shalt drown me a thousand times over,
If ever I trust thee again.
