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not since widow dido's time. |
antonio: |
widow! a pox o' that! how came that widow in? |
widow dido! |
sebastian: |
what if he had said 'widower aeneas' too? good lord, |
how you take it! |
adrian: |
'widow dido' said you? you make me study of that: |
she was of carthage, not of tunis. |
gonzalo: |
this tunis, sir, was carthage. |
adrian: |
carthage? |
gonzalo: |
i assure you, carthage. |
sebastian: |
his word is more than the miraculous harp: he hath |
raised the wall and houses too. |
antonio: |
what impossible matter will he make easy next? |
sebastian: |
i think he will carry this island home in his pocket |
and give it his son for an apple. |
antonio: |
and, sowing the kernels of it in the sea, bring |
forth more islands. |
gonzalo: |
ay. |
antonio: |
why, in good time. |
gonzalo: |
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. |
antonio: |
and the rarest that e'er came there. |
sebastian: |
bate, i beseech you, widow dido. |
antonio: |
o, widow dido! ay, widow dido. |
gonzalo: |
is not, sir, my doublet as fresh as the first day i |
wore it? i mean, in a sort. |
antonio: |
that sort was well fished for. |
gonzalo: |
when i wore it at your daughter's marriage? |
alonso: |
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? |
francisco: |
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. |
alonso: |
no, no, he's gone. |
sebastian: |
sir, you may thank yourself for this great loss, |
that would not bless our europe with your daughter, |
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. |