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and rotten ones.
ANTONIO.
Or, as ‘twere perfum’d by a fen.
GONZALO.
Here is everything advantageous to life.
ANTONIO.
True; save means to live.
SEBASTIAN.
Of that there’s none, or little.
GONZALO.
How lush and lusty the grass looks! how green!
ANTONIO.
The ground indeed is tawny.
SEBASTIAN.
With an eye of green in’t.
ANTONIO.
He misses not much.
SEBASTIAN.
No; he doth but mistake the truth totally.
GONZALO. But the rarity of it is,—which is indeed almost beyond credit,—
SEBASTIAN.
As many vouch’d rarities are.
GONZALO. That our garments, being, as they were, drenched in the sea, hold notwithstanding their freshness and glosses, being rather new-dyed than stain’d with salt water.
ANTONIO. If but one of his pockets could speak, would it not say he lies?
SEBASTIAN.
Ay, or very falsely pocket up his report.
GONZALO. 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.
SEBASTIAN.
‘Twas a sweet marriage, and we prosper well in our return.
ADRIAN. Tunis was never graced before with such a paragon to their queen.
GONZALO.
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.
ANTONIO.
His word is more than the miraculous harp.
SEBASTIAN.
He hath rais’d 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.
ALONSO.
Ay.
ANTONIO.
Why, in good time.
GONZALO. [To ALONSO.] 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 fish’d 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 remov’d,
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 th’ shore, that o’er his wave-worn basis bowed,
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.
ALONSO.
Prithee, peace.
SEBASTIAN.
You were kneel’d to, and importun’d otherwise
By all of us; and the fair soul herself
Weigh’d between loathness and obedience at
Which end o’ th’ beam should bow. We have lost your son,
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.
ALONSO.
So is the dearest of the loss.
GONZALO.
My lord Sebastian,
The truth you speak doth lack some gentleness
And time to speak it in; you rub the sore,
When you should bring the plaster.
SEBASTIAN.
Very well.
ANTONIO.
And most chirurgeonly.
GONZALO.
It is foul weather in us all, good sir,
When you are cloudy.
SEBASTIAN.
Foul weather?
ANTONIO.
Very foul.
GONZALO.
Had I plantation of this isle, my lord,—
ANTONIO.
He’d sow ‘t with nettle-seed.
SEBASTIAN.
Or docks, or mallows.