_Adr._ ‘Widow Dido’ said you? you make me study of that: she was of Carthage, not of Tunis.
_Seb._ His word is more than the miraculous harp; 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. 85
_Ant._ And, sowing the kernels of it in the sea, bring forth more islands.
_Gon._ Sir, we were talking that our garments seem now 90 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.
_Gon._ Is not, sir, my doublet as fresh as the first day I wore it? I mean, in a sort.
_Gon._ When I wore it at your daughter’s marriage?
_Alon._ You cram these words into mine ears against 100 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 105 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 110 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 115 He came alive to land.
_Seb._ 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, 120 Who hath cause to wet the grief on’t.
_Seb._ You were kneel’d to, and importuned otherwise, By all of us; and the fair soul herself Weigh’d between loathness and obedience, at Which end o’ the beam should bow. We have lost your son, 125 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.
_Gon._ My lord Sebastian, 130 The truth you speak doth lack some gentleness, And time to speak it in: you rub the sore, When you should bring the plaster.