Journeys Through Bookland
Chapter 340 : _Gonza._ Not since widow Dido's time.[397-14]_Anto._ Widow? a pox o' that! H

_Gonza._ Not since widow Dido's time.[397-14]

_Anto._ Widow? a pox o' that! How came that widow in? Widow Dido!

_Sebas._ What if he had said widower 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 a.s.sure 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 l.u.s.ty stroke To th' sh.o.r.e, 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]

_Sebas._ Foul weather!

_Anto._ Very foul.

_Gonza._ Had I plantation[400-25] of this isle, my lord,--

_Anto._ He'd sow't with nettle-seed.

_Sebas._ Or docks, or mallows.

_Gonza._--And were the King on't, what would I do?

_Sebas._ 'Scape being drunk for want of wine.

_Gonza._ 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,[400-26]

Bourn,[400-27] bound of land, tilth,[400-28] 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:--

_Sebas._ Yet he would be king on't.

_Anto._ The latter end of his commonwealth forgets the beginning.

_Gonza._ All things in common Nature should produce Without sweat or endeavour: treason, felony, Sword, pike, knife, gun, or need of any engine,[401-29]

Would I not have; but Nature should bring forth, Of its own kind, all foison,[401-30] all abundance, To feed my innocent people.

_Sebas._ No marrying 'mong his subjects?

_Anto._ None, man; all idle.

_Gonza._ I would with such perfection govern, sir, T' excel the golden age.[401-31]

_Sebas._ G.o.d save his Majesty!

_Anto._ Long live Gonzalo!

_Gonza._ And--do you mark me, sir?--

_Alon._ Pr'ythee, no more: thou dost talk nothing to me.

_Gonza._ I do well believe your Highness; and did it to minister occasion to these gentlemen, who are of such sensible[401-32] and nimble lungs, that they always use to laugh at nothing.