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Seb. He receives comfort like cold porridge.
Seb. Look, he's winding up the watch of his wit, by and by it will strikę.
Gon. When every grief is entertain'd, that's offer'd; comes to the entertainer
Seb. A dollor.
Gon. Dolour comes to him, indeed s you have spoken truer than you propos'd.
Seb. You have taken it wiselier than I meant you should.
Gon. Therefore, my lord,—
yet Seb. He will be talking.
Ant. Which of them, he, or Adrian, for a good wager, first begins to crow?
Seb. The old cock.
You cram tbefe' Words into my Ears againsi
The Stomacb of my Sense. seems te Mr. Pope to have been an Interpolation by the Players. For my part, tho' I allow the Matter of the Dialogue to be very poor and trivial, (of which, I am sorry to say, we don't want other Instances in our Poet;) I cannot be of this Gentleman's Opinion, that it is interpolated, For Mould we take out this intermediate Part, what would become of these Words of the King ?
Would I had never Married my Daughter there! What Daughter ? and, where married? For it is from this intermediate part of the Scene only, that we are told, the King had a Daughter nam'd Claribel, whom he had married into Tunis. 'Tis true, in a subsequent Scene, betwixt Antonio and Sebastian, we again hear her and Tunis mention'd: but in fuch a manner, that it would be quite obscure and unintelligible without this previous Information. Mr. Pope's Criticism therefore is injudicious and unweigh’d. Besides, poor and jejune as the Matter of the Dialogue is, it was certainly design'd to be of a ridiculous Stamp; to divert and
unsettle the King's Thoughts from reflecting too deeply on his Son's supposid Drowning,
Ant. The cockrel.
Adr. It must nceds be of subtle, tender, and delicato temperance.
Ant. Temperance was a delicate wench.
Gon. But the rarity of it is, which is indeed almost beyond credit
Seb. As many voucht rarities are.
Gon. That our garments being (as they were) drench'd in the sea, hold notwithstanding their freshness and glosses; being rather new dy'd, than stain'd with salt water.
Ant. If but one of his pockets could speak, would it not say, he lies? Seb. Ay, or very falsely pocket up his
report. Gon. Methinks, our garments are now as fresh as when we put them on first in Africk, at the marriage of the King's fair Daughter Claribel to the King of Tunis.
Seb. 'Twas a sweet marriage, and we prosper well in our return.
Adr. Tunis was never grac'd before with such a paragon to their Queen.
Gon. Not fince widow Dido's time.
Ant. Widow ? a pox o' that: how came that widow in ? widow Dido!
Seb. What if he had said, widower Æneas too? Good lord, how you take it!
Adr. Widow Dido, said you? you make me study of that: she was
Carthage, not of Tunis.
Ant. What impoffiblc matter will he make easy next?
Seb. I think, he will carry this Hand home in his pocket, and give it his son for an apple. Ant. And Towing the kernels of it in the fcain
, bring forth more Islands.
Gon. Sir, we were talking, that our garments feem now, as fresh, as when we were at Tunis at che marriage of your daughter, who is now Queen. Ant. And the rareft that e'er came there. Seb. Bate, I beseech you, widow Dido. Ant. 0, widow Dido! ay, widow Dido!
Gon. Is not my doublet, Sir, as fresh as the first day I wore it? I mean, in a sort,
Ant. That fort was well fish'd for,
Alon. You cram these words into mine ears against
Of Naples and of Milan, what strange fith
Fran. Sir, he may live.
Alon. No, no, he's gone.
Seb. Sir, you may thank your felf 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 kneeld to, and importun'd otherwise By all of us ; and the fair soul her self, Weigh'd between loathness and obedience, at Which end the beam should bow. We've loft 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 deareft o'th' lofs.
Gon. My lord Sebastian,
Seb. Very well.
Gon. It is foul weather in us all, good Sir,
Seb. Foul weather?
Seb. Or docks, or mallows.
Gon. I'th' commonwealth, I would by contraries
Seb. And yet he would be King on't.
Ant. The latter end of his commonwealth forgets' the beginning:
Gon. All things in common nature should produce,
Seb. No marrying 'mong his subjects ?
Gon. I would with such perfection govern, Sir,
Seb. Save his Majesty!
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 ftill.