What a strange drowsiness possesses them!
It is the quality o’ th’ climate.
Doth it not then our eyelids sink? I find not
Myself dispos’d to sleep.
Nor I, my spirits are nimble.
They fell together all, as by consent;
They dropp’d, as by a thunder-stroke. What might,
Worthy Sebastian, O, what might—? No more—
And yet methinks I see it in thy face,
What thou shouldst be. Th’ occasion speaks thee, and
My strong imagination sees a crown
Dropping upon thy head.
What? art thou waking?
Do you not hear me speak?
I do, and surely
It is a sleepy language, and thou speak’st
Out of thy sleep. What is it thou didst say?
This is a strange repose, to be asleep
With eyes wide open—standing, speaking, moving—
And yet so fast asleep.
Thou let’st thy fortune sleep—die, rather; wink’st
Whiles thou art waking.
Thou dost snore distinctly,
There’s meaning in thy snores.
I am more serious than my custom; you
Must be so too, if heed me; which to do,
Trebles thee o’er.
Well; I am standing water.
I’ll teach you how to flow.
Do so. To ebb
Hereditary sloth instructs me.
If you but knew how you the purpose cherish
Whiles thus you mock it! how, in stripping it,
You more invest it! Ebbing men, indeed,
Most often, do so near the bottom run
By their own fear or sloth.
Prithee say on.
The setting of thine eye and cheek proclaim
A matter from thee; and a birth, indeed,
Which throes thee much to yield.
Although this lord of weak remembrance, this
Who shall be of as little memory
When he is earth’d, hath here almost persuaded
(For he’s a spirit of persuasion, only
Professes to persuade) the King his son’s alive,
’Tis as impossible that he’s undrown’d,
As he that sleeps here swims.
I have no hope
That he’s undrown’d.
O, out of that no hope
What great hope have you! No hope, that way, is
Another way so high a hope that even
Ambition cannot pierce a wink beyond,
But doubt discovery there. Will you grant with me
That Ferdinand is drown’d?
Then tell me,
Who’s the next heir of Naples?
She that is Queen of Tunis; she that dwells
Ten leagues beyond man’s life; she that from Naples
Can have no note, unless the sun were post—
The Man i’ th’ Moon’s too slow—till new-born chins
Be rough and razorable; she that from whom
We all were sea-swallow’d, though some cast again
(And by that destiny) to perform an act
Whereof what’s past is prologue, what to come
In yours and my discharge.
What stuff is this? How say you?
’Tis true, my brother’s daughter’s Queen of Tunis,
So is she heir of Naples; ’twixt which regions
There is some space.
A space whose ev’ry cubit
Seems to cry out, “How shall that Claribel
Measure us back to Naples? Keep in Tunis,
And let Sebastian wake.” Say this were death
That now hath seiz’d them, why, they were no worse
Than now they are. There be that can rule Naples
As well as he that sleeps; lords that can prate
As amply and unnecessarily
As this Gonzalo; I myself could make
A chough of as deep chat. O that you bore
The mind that I do! what a sleep were this
For your advancement! Do you understand me?
Methinks I do.
And how does your content
Tender your own good fortune?
You did supplant your brother Prospero.
And look how well my garments sit upon me,
Much feater than before. My brother’s servants
Were then my fellows, now they are my men.
But, for your conscience?
Ay, sir; where lies that? If ’twere a kibe,
’Twould put me to my slipper; but I feel not
This deity in my bosom. Twenty consciences,
That stand ’twixt me and Milan, candied be they,
And melt ere they molest! Here lies your brother,
No better than the earth he lies upon,
If he were that which now he’s like—that’s dead,
Whom I with this obedient steel, three inches of it,
Can lay to bed for ever; whiles you, doing thus,
To the perpetual wink for aye might put
This ancient morsel, this Sir Prudence, who
Should not upbraid our course. For all the rest,
They’ll take suggestion as a cat laps milk;
They’ll tell the clock to any business that
We say befits the hour.
Thy case, dear friend,
Shall be my president: as thou got’st Milan,
I’ll come by Naples. Draw thy sword. One stroke
Shall free thee from the tribute which thou payest,
And I the King shall love thee.
And when I rear my hand, do you the like,
To fall it on Gonzalo.
O, but one word.