_Adri._ Widow Dido, said you? you make me study of that: she was of Carthage, not of Tunis. _Gonza._ This Tunis, sir, was Carthage. _Adri._ Carthage! _Gonza._ I assure you, Carthage. _Anto._ His word is more than the miraculous harp.[397-15] _Sebas._ He hath raised the wall and houses too. _Anto._ What impossible matter will he make easy next? _Sebas._ I think he will carry this island home in his pocket, and give it his son for an apple. _Anto._ And, sowing the kernels of it in the sea, bring forth more islands. _Alon._ Ah! _Anto._ Why, in good time. _Gonza._ 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. _Anto._ And the rarest that e'er came there. _Sebas._ Bate, I beseech you, widow Dido. _Anto._ O, widow Dido! ay, widow Dido. _Gonza._ Is not, sir, my doublet as fresh as the first day I wore it, at your daughter's marriage? _Alon._ You cram these words into mine ears against The stomach of my sense.[398-16] Would I had never Married my daughter there! for, coming thence, My son is lost; and, in my rate,[398-17] 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? _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[398-18] wave-worn basis bow'd, As[398-19] stooping to relieve him: I not doubt He came alive to land. _Alon._ No, no; he's gone. _Sebas._ 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[399-20] hath cause to wet the grief on't. _Alon._ Pr'ythee, peace. _Sebas._ 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 the beam should bow.[399-21] We've 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 dear'st[399-22] o' the loss. _Gonza._ 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. _Sebas._ Very well. _Auto._ And most chirurgeonly.[399-23] _Gonza._ It is foul weather in us all, good sir, When you are cloudy.[400-24]