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.