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I hope not; Yet what so confident Sailour that heares the Sea rore, The winds sing lowd and dreadfull, the day darkend, But he will cry 'a storme'! downe with his Canvas And hull, expecting of that horrid feavour? Enter Son. How now? What newes? Son. Plucke up your hart, Sir, fairely And wither not away thus poorely from us; Be now secure: the myst ye feard is vanishd, Leidenberch's dead. Bar.
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