Harke now I heare them, ding-dong bell

Fer. The Ditty do's remember my drown'd father,
This is no mortall busines, nor no sound
That the earth owes: I heare it now aboue me

Pro. The fringed Curtaines of thine eye aduance,
And say what thou see'st yond

Mira. What is't a Spirit?
Lord, how it lookes about: Beleeue me sir,
It carries a braue forme. But 'tis a spirit

Pro. No wench, it eats, and sleeps, & hath such senses
As we haue: such. This Gallant which thou seest
Was in the wracke: and but hee's something stain'd
With greefe (that's beauties canker) y might'st call him
A goodly person: he hath lost his fellowes,
And strayes about to finde 'em

Mir. I might call him
A thing diuine, for nothing naturall
I euer saw so Noble

Pro. It goes on I see
As my soule prompts it: Spirit, fine spirit, Ile free thee
Within two dayes for this

Fer. Most sure the Goddesse
On whom these ayres attend: Vouchsafe my pray'r