Carthage. His word is more than the miraculous harp; he hath raised the wall and houses too. What impossible matter will he make easy next? I think he will carry this island home in his pocket and give it his son for an apple. And, sowing the kernels of it in the sea, bring forth more islands. Ay. Why, in good time. 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 fished 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 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? 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 the shore, that o'er his wave-worn basis bow'd, 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. Prithee, peace. 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, 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 dear'st o' 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. Very well. And most chirurgeonly