And, sowing the kernels of it in the sea, bring
forth more islands.
Why, in good time.
[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.
And the rarest that e'er came there.
Bate, I beseech you, widow Dido.
O! widow Dido; ay, widow Dido.
Is not, sir, my doublet as fresh as the first day I
wore it? I mean, in a sort.
That sort was well fish'd for.
When I wore it at your daughter's marriage?
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?
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.
No, no; he's gone.
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.
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.
So is the dearest of the loss.
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.
And most chirurgeonly.
It is foul weather in us all, good sir,
When you are cloudy.
Had I plantation of this isle, my lord, —
He'd sow 't with nettle-seed.
Or docks, or mallows.
And were the king on't, what would I do?
'Scape being drunk for want of wine.
I' the commonwealth I would by contraries
Execute all things; for no kind of traffic
Would I admit; no name of magistrate;
Letters should not be known; riches, poverty,
And use of service, none; contract, succession,
Bourn, bound of land, tilth, vineyard, none;
No use of metal, corn, or wine, or oil;
No occupation; all men idle, all:
And women too, but innocent and pure;
No sovereignty, —
Yet he would be king on't.
The latter end of his commonwealth forgets the beginning.
All things in common nature should produce
Without sweat or endeavour; treason, felony,
Sword, pike, knife, gun, or need of any engine,
Would I not have; but nature should bring forth,
Of it own kind, all foison, all abundance,
To feed my innocent people.
No marrying 'mong his subjects?
None, man: all idle; whores and knaves.
I would with such perfection govern, sir,
To excel the golden age.
Save his Majesty!
Long live Gonzalo!
And, — do you mark me, sir?
Prithee, no more: thou dost talk nothing to me.
I do well believe your highness; and did it to
minister occasion to these gentlemen, who are of such
sensible and nimble lungs that they always use to laugh
'Twas you we laugh'd at.