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So we wou'd without your bidding.—
Prethee, what is't?
I vow, two little Girls, all alone, in a small Boat.—How lamentably are the poor Creatures tost!—softly,—softly,—well recover'd!—The Tide drives the Boat from the Rock to the Shore.
A Pylot cou'd n't do't better.—I think I ne'r saw the Sea run so high, i'my born Days.—They're safe, if the Waves don't catch 'em.—Now,—now,—comes all the Danger!—So, there's one wash'd out;—but by good luck, fall'n upo' the Flats: She'll easily get off.—Huzzah! D'ye see how the Billows ha' thrown her a shore?—She's upon her Feet, and makes this way:—All's well, all's well!—O, th' other's leap'd a shore too; and the poor Soul's upon her Knees i'the Water for fear.—Very well! she's up, and upon dry Land.—She's taken to the right, to her sorrow, I'll warrant her; for, faith, she may wander there all Day.—
What does that concern your Work?
—But if she chance to tumble down yon Cliff, she'll make but a short cut of her Ramble.—
Nay, if you've a mind to sup wi'their Fare, Sceparnio, follow them; if wi' mine, follow me.
That's but reasonable.
Come along then.
Well, Sir.