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Not since widow Dido's time.
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ANTONIO:
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Widow! a pox o' that! How came that widow in?
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widow Dido!
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SEBASTIAN:
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What if he had said 'widower AEneas' too? Good Lord,
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how you take it!
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ADRIAN:
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'Widow Dido' said you? you make me study of that:
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she was of Carthage, not of Tunis.
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GONZALO:
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This Tunis, sir, was Carthage.
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ADRIAN:
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Carthage?
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GONZALO:
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I assure you, Carthage.
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SEBASTIAN:
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His word is more than the miraculous harp; he hath
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raised the wall and houses too.
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ANTONIO:
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What impossible matter will he make easy next?
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SEBASTIAN:
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I think he will carry this island home in his pocket
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and give it his son for an apple.
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ANTONIO:
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And, sowing the kernels of it in the sea, bring
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forth more islands.
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GONZALO:
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Ay.
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ANTONIO:
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Why, in good time.
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GONZALO:
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Sir, we were talking that our garments seem now
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as fresh as when we were at Tunis at the marriage
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of your daughter, who is now queen.
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ANTONIO:
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And the rarest that e'er came there.
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SEBASTIAN:
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Bate, I beseech you, widow Dido.
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ANTONIO:
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O, widow Dido! ay, widow Dido.
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GONZALO:
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Is not, sir, my doublet as fresh as the first day I
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wore it? I mean, in a sort.
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ANTONIO:
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That sort was well fished for.
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GONZALO:
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When I wore it at your daughter's marriage?
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ALONSO:
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You cram these words into mine ears against
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The stomach of my sense. Would I had never
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Married my daughter there! for, coming thence,
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My son is lost and, in my rate, she too,
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Who is so far from Italy removed
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I ne'er again shall see her. O thou mine heir
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Of Naples and of Milan, what strange fish
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Hath made his meal on thee?
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FRANCISCO:
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Sir, he may live:
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I saw him beat the surges under him,
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And ride upon their backs; he trod the water,
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Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted
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The surge most swoln that met him; his bold head
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'Bove the contentious waves he kept, and oar'd
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Himself with his good arms in lusty stroke
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To the shore, that o'er his wave-worn basis bow'd,
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As stooping to relieve him: I not doubt
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He came alive to land.
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ALONSO:
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No, no, he's gone.
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SEBASTIAN:
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Sir, you may thank yourself for this great loss,
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That would not bless our Europe with your daughter,
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But rather lose her to an African;
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Where she at least is banish'd from your eye,
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Who hath cause to wet the grief on't.
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