Bray of the gongs and horns of the Indian priests!
A cup of wine poured in the sea were not
More surely lost in the green and brackish depths,
Than the fire and fragrance of my doctrine poured
Into that multitudinous pond of men,
India.--Shipman! Master of the ship!--
I have thought better of this journey; now
I find I am not meant to go.


Captain: Not meant?


Thomas:
I would say, I had forgotten Indian air
Is full of fevers; and my health is bad
For holding out against fever.


Captain:
As you please.
I keep your fare, though.


Thomas: O, 'tis yours.--Good sailing!


[As he makes to depart, a Noble Stranger is seen approaching along the
quay.]