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: 120
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 124
'Bove the contentious waves he kept, and oar'd
Himself with his good arms in lusty stroke
To the shore, that o'er his wave-worn basis bow'd,
As stooping to relieve him. I not doubt 128
He came alive to land.
Alon. No, no; he's gone.
Seb. 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; 132
Where she at least is banish'd from your eye,
Who hath cause to wet the grief on 't.
Alon. Prithee, peace.
Seb. You were kneel'd to and importun'd otherwise
By all of us; and the fair soul herself 136
Weigh'd between loathness and obedience, at
Which end o' the beam should bow. We have lost your son,
I fear, for ever: Milan and Naples have
Mo widows in them of this business' making, 140
Than we bring men to comfort them:
The fault's your own.
Alon. So is the dear'st o' the loss.
Gon. My lord Sebastian,
134 Who hath cause, etc.; cf. n.
137 Weigh'd: balanced
loathness: reluctance
138 Which . . . bow; cf. n.
140 Mo: more
142 dear'st . . . loss: most precious one of those lost (Ferdinand)
