AEneas too? Good Lord, how you take
it!

_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,