instinctively

Well demanded , wench .
My tale provokes that question . Dear , they durst not ,
So dear the love my people bore me , nor set
A mark so bloody on the business , but
With colors fairer painted their foul ends .
In few , they hurried us aboard a bark ,
Bore us some leagues to sea , where they prepared
A rotten carcass of a butt , not rigged ,
Nor tackle , sail , nor mast ; the very rats
Instinctively have quit it . There they hoist us
To cry to th’ sea that roared to us , to sigh
To th’ winds , whose pity , sighing back again ,
Did us but loving wrong .