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 vouched 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 stained 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 775
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.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?
YOU ARE READING
The Tempest
General FictionThe Tempest is a play by William Shakespeare, probably written in 1610-1611, and thought to be one of the last plays that Shakespeare wrote alone. It is set on a remote island, where the sorcerer Prospero, rightful Duke of Milan, plots to restore hi...
Act II, Scene i
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