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Gon. Dolour comes to him, indeed; you have spoken truer than you purposed.

Seb. You have taken it wiselier than I meant you should.

Gon. Therefore, my lord,—

Ant. Fie, what a spendthrift is he of his tongue! Alon. I pry'thee, spare.

Gon. Well, I have done: but yet—

Seb. He will be talking.

Ant. Which of them, he, or Adrian, for a good

wager, first begins to crow?

Seb. The old cock.

Ant. The cockrel.

Seb. Done: The wager?

Ant. A laughter.

Seb. A match.

Adr. Though this island seem to be desert,—

Seb. Ha, ha, ha!

Ant. So, you 've paid.

Adr. Uninhabitable, and almost inaccessible,-
Seb. Yet,

Adr. Yet

Ant. He could not miss it.

Adr. It must needs be of subtle, tender, and

delicate temperance.1

Ant. Temperance was a delicate wench.

Seb. Ay, and a subtle, as he most learnedly delivered.

1 Temperature.

Adr. The air breathes upon us here most sweetly.

Seb. As if it had lungs, and rotten ones.

Ant. Or, as 'twere perfumed by a fen.

Gon. Here is every thing advantageous to life.

Ant. True; save means to live.

Seb. Of that there's none, or little.

Gon. How lush 1 and lusty the grass looks! how

green!

Ant. The ground, indeed, is tawny.

Seb. With an eye of green 2 in 't.

Ant. He misses not much.

Seb. No; he doth but mistake the truth totally. Gon. But the rarity of it is (which is indeed almost beyond credit)

Seb. As many vouched rarities are.

Gon. That our garments, being, as they were, drenched in the sea, hold notwithstanding their freshness, and glosses; being rather new dyed, than stained with salt water.

Ant. If but one of his pockets could speak, would it not say, he lies?

Seb. Ay, or very falsely pocket up his report.

Gon. Methinks, our garments are now as fresh as when we put them on first in Afric, at the marriage of the king's fair daughter Claribel to the king of Tunis.

Seb. 'Twas a sweet marriage, and we prosper well in our return.

Juicy, succulent.

2 Shade of green.

Adr. Tunis was never graced before with such a paragon to their queen.

Gon. Not since widow Dido's time.

Ant. Widow? a pox o' that! How came that widow in? Widow Dido!

Seb. What if he had said, widower Æneas too? good lord, how you take it!

Adr. Widow Dido, said you? you make me study of that: she was of Carthage, not of Tunis.

Gon. This Tunis, sir, was Carthage.

Adr. Carthage?

Gon. I assure you, Carthage.

Ant. His word is more than the miraculous harp.1

Seb. He hath raised the wall, and houses too. Ant. What impossible matter will he make easy next?

Seb. I think, he will carry this island home in his pocket, and give it his son for an apple.

Ant. And, sowing the kernels of it in the sea, bring forth more islands.

Gon. Ay?

Ant. Why, in good time.

Gon. Sir, we were talking, that our garments seem now as fresh, as when we were at Tunis at the marriage of your daughter, who is now queen. Ant. And the rarest that e'er came there. Seb. 'Bate, I beseech you, widow Dido. Ant. O, widow Dido; ay, widow Dido.

1 Alluding to the wonders of Amphion's music.

Gon. Is not, sir, my doublet as fresh as the first day I wore it? I mean, in a sort.1

Ant. That sort was well fished for.

Gon. When I wore it at your daughter's marriage? Alon. You cram these words into mine ears

against

The stomach of my sense.

'Would I had never

Married my daughter there! for, coming thence,
My son is lost; and, in my rate, she too

Who is so far from Italy removed,

I ne'er again shall see her. O thou mine heir

Of Naples and of Milan, what strange fish
Hath made his meal on thee?

Fran.

Sir, he may live;

I saw him beat the surges under him,

And ride upon their backs; he trod the water,
Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted

The surge most swoln that met him: his bold

head

'Bove the contentious waves he kept, and oar'd Himself with his good arms in lusty stroke

To the shore, that o'er his wave-worn basis bow'd As stooping to relieve him: I not doubt,

He came alive to land.

Alon.

No, no, he's gone.

Seb. Sir, you may thank yourself for this great

loss;

That would not bless our Europe with your daughter,

1 Degree or quality.

But rather lose her to an African;

Where she, at least, is banish'd from your eye,
Who hath cause to wet the grief on 't.

Alon.

Pr'ythee, peace.

Seb. You were kneel'd to, and importuned other

wise

By all of us; and the fair soul herself

Weigh'd, between loathness and obedience, at
Which end o' the beam she'd bow.1

your son,

We have lost

I fear, for ever: Milan and Naples have

More widows in them of this business' making, Than we bring men to comfort them: the fault's Your own.

Alon. So is the dearest of the loss.

My lord Sebastian,

Gon.
The truth you speak doth lack some gentleness,
And time to speak it in: you rub the sore,

When you should bring the plaster.

Seb.

Ant. And most chirurgeonly.

Very well.

Gon. It is foul weather in us all, good sir, When you are cloudy.

Seb.

Ant.

Foul weather?

Very foul.

-

Gon. Had I plantation of this isle, my lord,-
Ant. He'd sow it with nettle-seed.

1 Whether she should yield to duty or inclination.

SHAK.

I.

C

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