THE TEMPEST. Уильям Шекспир

GONZALO.

       Not since widow Dido’s time.

       ANTONIO.

       Widow! a pox o’ that! How came that widow in? Widow Dido!

       SEBASTIAN.

       What if he had said, widower Aeneas too?

       Good Lord, how you take it!

       ADRIAN.

       Widow Dido said you? You make me study of that; she was of

       Carthage, not of Tunis.

       GONZALO.

       This Tunis, sir, was Carthage.

       ADRIAN.

       Carthage?

       GONZALO.

       I assure you, Carthage.

       ANTONIO.

       His word is more than the miraculous harp.

       SEBASTIAN.

       He hath rais’d the wall, and houses too.

       ANTONIO.

       What impossible matter will he make easy next?

       SEBASTIAN. I think he will carry this island home in his pocket, and give it his son for an apple.

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

       ALONSO.

       Ay.

       ANTONIO.

       Why, in good time.

       GONZALO. [To ALONSO.] 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.

       ANTONIO.

       And the rarest that e’er came there.

       SEBASTIAN.

       Bate, I beseech you, widow Dido.

       ANTONIO.

       O! widow Dido; ay, widow Dido.

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

       ANTONIO.

       That sort was well fish’d for.

       GONZALO.

       When I wore it at your daughter’s marriage?

       ALONSO.

       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?

       FRANCISCO.

       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 bowed,

       As stooping to relieve him. I not doubt

       He came alive to land.

       ALONSO.

       No, no; he’s gone.

       SEBASTIAN.

       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.

       ALONSO.

       Prithee, peace.

       SEBASTIAN.

       You were kneel’d to, and importun’d otherwise

       By all of us; and the fair soul herself

       Weigh’d between loathness and obedience at

       Which end o’ th’ 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.

       ALONSO.

       So is the dearest of the loss.

       GONZALO.

       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.

       SEBASTIAN.

       Very well.

       ANTONIO.

       And most chirurgeonly.

       GONZALO.

       It is foul weather in us all, good sir,

       When you are cloudy.

       SEBASTIAN.

       Foul weather?

       ANTONIO.

       Very foul.

       GONZALO.

       Had I plantation of this isle, my lord,—

       ANTONIO.

       He’d sow ‘t with nettle-seed.

       SEBASTIAN.

       Or docks, or mallows.

       GONZALO.

       And were the king on’t, what would I do?

       SEBASTIAN.

       ‘Scape being drunk for want of wine.

       GONZALO.

       I’ the 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; riches, poverty,

       And use of service, none; contract, succession,

       Bourn, 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,—

       SEBASTIAN.

       Yet he would be king on’t.

       ANTONIO.

       The latter end of his commonwealth forgets the beginning.

       GONZALO.

       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 it own kind, all foison, all abundance,

       To feed my innocent people.

       SEBASTIAN.

       No marrying ‘mong his subjects?

       ANTONIO.

       None, man: all idle; whores and knaves.

       GONZALO.

       I would with such perfection govern, sir,

       To excel