Adr. Widow Dido, said you? you make me study of

that She was of Carthage, not of Tunis.

:

Gon. This Tunis, sir, was Carthage.

Adr. Carthage?

Gon. I assure you, Carthage.

Ant. His word is more than the miraculous harp.'
Seb. He hath rais'd 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.

Ant. And, sowing the kernels of it in the sea, bring forth more islands.

Gon. Ay?

Ant. Why, in good time.

Gon. 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.

Ant. And the rarest that e'er came there.
Seb. 'Bate, I beseech you, widow Dido,

Ant. O, widow Dido; ay, widow Dido.

Gon. Is not, sir, my doublet as fresh as the first day I wore it? I mean, in a sort.

Ant. That sort was well fish'd for.

Gon. When I wore it at your daughter's marriage?
Alon. 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!

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
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 bow'd,
As stooping to relieve him: I not doubt,
He came alive to land.

Alon. No, no, he's gone.

[1] Alluding to the wonders of Amphion's music. STEEVENS.

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,
Who hath cause to wet the grief on't.

Alon. Pr'ythee, peace.

Seb. You were kneel'd to, and impórtun'd otherwise By all of us; and the fair soul herself

Weigh'd, between lothness and obedience, at

Which end o' th' beam she'd 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.

Alon. So is the dearest of the loss.

Gon. 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.

Seb. Very well.

Ant. And most chirurgeonly.

Gon. It is foul weather in us all, good sir,

When you are cloudy.

Seb. Foul weather?

Ant. Very foul.

Gon. Had I plantation of this isle, my lord,-
Ant. He'd sow it with nettle-seed.

Seb. Or docks, or mallows.

Gon. And were the king of it, What would I do?
Seb, 'Scape being drunk, for want of wine.

Gon. I' th' 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; no use of service,
Of riches or of poverty; no contracts,

Successions; 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 :

Seb. And yet he would be king on't."

[2] All this dialogue is a fine satire on the Utopian treatises of government, and the impracticable, inconsistent schemes, therein recommended.

WARB.

Ant. The latter end of his commonwealth forgets the beginning

Gon. 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 its own kind, all foizon, all abundance,
To feed my innocent people.

Seb. No marrying 'mong his subjects?

Ant. None, man; all idle; whores, and knaves. Gon. I would with such perfection govern, sir, To excel the golden age.

Seb. 'Save his majesty !

Ant. Long live Gonzalo !

Gon. And, do you mark me, sir?—

Alon. Pr'ythee, no more: thou dost talk nothing to me. Gon. 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 at nothing.

Ant. 'Twas you we laugh'd at.

Gon. Who, in this kind of merry fooling, am nothing to you so you may continue, and laugh at nothing still. Ant. What a blow was there given!

Seb. An it had not fallen flat-long.

Gon. You are gentlemen of brave mettle; you would lift the moon out of her sphere, if she would continue in it five weeks without changing.

Enter ARIEL invisible, playing solemn music.

Seb. We would so, and then go a bat-fowling.

Ant. Nay, good my lord, be not angry.

Gon. No, I warrant you; I will not adventure my discretion so weakly. Will you laugh me asleep, for I am very heavy?

Ant. Go sleep, and hear us.

[All sleep but ALON. SEB. and Ant. Alon. What, all so soon asleep! I wish mine eyes Would, with themselves, shut up my thoughts: 1 find, They are inclin'd to do so.

Seb. Please you, sir,

Do not omit the heavy offer of it:

It seldom visits sorrow; when it doth,

It is a comforter.

Ant. We two, my lord,

Will guard your person, while you take

And watch your safety.

your rest,

Alon. Thank you: Wond'rous heavy,—

[ALONSO sleeps. Exit ARIEL.

Seb. What a strange drowsiness possesses them?

Ant. It is th' quality o' th' climate.

Seb. Why

Doth it not then our eye-lids sink? I find not
Myself dispos'd to sleep.

Ant Nor1; my spirits are nimble.

They fell together all, as by consent;

They dropp'd, as by a thunder-stroke. What might,

Worthy Sebastian -O, what might ?-No more :

And yet, methinks, i see it in thy face,

What thou should'st be th' occasion speaks thee; and My strong imagination sees a crown

Dropping upon thy head.

Seb. What, art thou waking?
Ant. Do you not hear me speak?

Seb. I do; and, surely,

It is a sleepy language; and thou speak'st

Out of thy sleep: What is it thou didst say?

This is a strange repose, to be asleep

With eyes wide open; standing, speaking, moving,

And yet so fast asleep.

Ant. Noble Sebastian,

Thou let'st thy fortune sleep-die rather; wink'st
Whiles thou art waking.

Seb. Thou dost snore distinctly;

There's meaning in thy snores.

Ant. I am more serious than my custom: you Must be so too, if heed me; which to do,

Trebles thee o'er.

Seb. Well; I am standing water.

Ant. I'll teach you how to flow.
Seb. Do so to ebb,

Hereditary sloth instructs me.

Ant. O,

If you but knew, how you the purpose cherish,
Whiles thus you mock it! how, in stripping it,
You more invest it! Ebbing men, indeed,
Most often do so near the bottom run,

By their own fear, or sloth.

Seb. Pr'ythee, say on:

The setting of thine eye, and cheek, proclaim
A matter from thee; and a birth, indeed,
Which throes thee much to yield.

Ant. Thus, sir :

Although this lord of weak remembrance, this (Who shall be of as little memory,

When he is earth'd,) hath here almost persuaded (For he's a spirit of persuasion only,)

The king, his son's alive; 'tis as impossible

That he's undrown'd, as he that sleeps here, swims. Seb. I have no hope

That he's undrown'd.

Ant. O, out of that no hope,

What great hope have you! no hope, that way, is
Another way so high an hope, that even

Ambition cannot pierce a wink beyond,

But doubts discovery there. Will you grant, with me, That Ferdinand is drown'd?

Seb. He's gone.

Ant. Then, tell me,

Who's the next heir of Naples?

Seb. Claribel.

Ant. She that is queen of Tunis; she that dwells Ten leagues beyond man's life; she that from Naples Can have no note, unless the sun were post, (The man i' th' moon's too slow,) till new-born chins Be rough and razorable: she, from whom

We were all sea-swallow'd, though some cast again;
And, by that, destin'd to perform an act,*

Whereof what's past is prologue; what to come,
In yours and my discharge.

Seb. What stuff is this?-How say you?

'Tis true, my brother's daughter's queen of Tunis ; So is she heir of Naples; 'twixt which regions

There is some space.

Ant. A space whose every cubit

Seems to cry out, How shall that Claribel

Measure us back to Naples ?-Keep in Tunis,
And let Sebastian wake!-Say, this were death

That now hath seiz'd them; why, they were no worse

[4] It is a common plea of wickedness to call temptation destiny.

JOHNS.