Pros. I am woe for't, sir. Alon. Irreparable is the loss; and Patience Says 'tis past her cure. I rather think Pros. And rest myself content. Alon. You the like loss? grace, Pros. As great to me, as late; and supportable To make the dear loss have I means much weaker Than you may call to comfort you; for I Have lost my daughter. Alon. A daughter? Oh, heavens! that they were living both in Naples, The king and queen there! that they were, I wish Myself were mudded in that oozy bed Where my son lies. When did you lose ter? your daugh Pros. In this last tempest. I perceive these lords At this encounter do so much admire That they devour their reason; and scarce think Their eyes do offices of truth: their words Are natural breath. But howsoe'er you have Been justled from your senses, know for certain That I am Prospero, and that very duke Which was thrust forth of Milan; who most strangely Upon this shore, where you were wreck'd, was landed, To be the lord on't. No more yet of this; For 'tis a chronicle of day by day, Not a relation for a breakfast, nor Befitting this first meeting. Welcome, sir; This cell's my court. Here have I few attendants, I will requite you with as good a thing; |