Ahab standing by the helm. Starbuck approaching him. 'We must send down the main-top-sail yard, sir. The band is working loose, and the lee lift is half-stranded. Shall I strike it, sir? ' 'Strike nothing; lash it.
If I had sky-sail poles, I’d sway them up now. ' 'Sir? —in God’s name! —sir? ' 'Well. ' 'The anchors are working, sir. Shall I get them inboard? ' 'Strike nothing, and stir nothing, but lash everything.
The wind rises, but it has not got up to my table-lands yet. Quick, and see to it. —By masts and keels! he takes me for the hunch-backed skipper of some coasting smack. Send down my main-top-sail yard! Ho, gluepots!
Loftiest trucks were made for wildest winds, and this brain-truck of mine now sails amid the cloud-scud. Shall I strike that? Oh, none but cowards send down their brain-trucks in tempest time. What a hooroosh aloft there!
I would e’en take it for sublime, did I not know that the colic is a noisy malady. Oh, take medicine, take medicine!