Ant. Lady, the circumstance is tedious.
Ros. Troth, not a whit; good fair, let’s have it all:
I love not, I, to have a jot left out,
If the tale come from a loved orator.
Ant. Vouchsafe me, then, your hush’d observances.—
Vehement in pursuit of strange novelties,
After long travel through the Asian main,
I shipp’d my hopeful thoughts for Brittany;[67] 190
Longing to view great Nature’s miracle,
The glory of our sex, whose fame doth strike
Remotest ears with adoration.
Sailing some two months with inconstant winds,
We view’d the glistering Venetian forts,
To which we made: when lo! some three leagues off,
We might descry a horrid spectacle;
The issue of black fury strew’d the sea
With tatter’d carcasses of splitted ships,
Half sinking, burning, floating topsy-turvy. 200
Not far from these sad ruins of fell rage,
We might behold a creature press the waves;
Senseless he sprawl’d, all notch’d with gaping wounds.
To him we made, and (short) we took him up;
The first thing he spake was,—Mellida!
And then he swooned.[68]
Mel. Ay me!
Ant. Why sigh you, fair?
Mel.[69] Nothing but little humours; good sweet, on.
Ant. His wounds being dress’d, and life recoverèd,
We ’gan discourse; when lo! the sea grew mad,
His bowels rumbling with wind-passion; 210
Straight swarthy darkness popp’d out Phœbus’ eye,
And blurr’d the jocund face of bright-cheek’d day;
Whilst crudled[70] fogs masked even darkness’ brow:
Heaven bad’s good night, and the rocks groan’d
At the intestine uproar of the main.
Now gusty flaws strook up the very heels
Of our mainmast, whilst the keen lightning shot
Through the black bowels of the quaking air;
Straight chops a wave, and in his sliftred[71] paunch
Down falls our ship, and there he breaks his neck; 220
Which in an instant up was belkt again.
When thus this martyr’d soul began to sigh:
“Give me your hand (quoth he): now do you grasp
Th’ unequall’d[72] mirror of ragg’d misery:
Is’t not a horrid storm? O, well-shaped sweet,
Could your quick eye strike through these gashèd wounds,
You should behold a heart, a heart, fair creature,
Raging more wild than is this frantic sea.
Wolt[73] do me a favour? if thou chance survive,
But visit Venice, kiss the precious white 230
Of my most,—nay, all epithets are base
To attribute to gracious Mellida:
Tell her the spirit of Antonio
Wisheth his last gasp breath’d upon her breast.”
Ros. Why weeps soft-hearted Florizell?