Ant. Alas, the flinty rocks groan’d at his plaints.
“Tell her, (quoth he) that her obdurate sire
Hath crack’d his bosom;” therewithal he wept,
And thus sigh’d on: “The sea is merciful;
Look how it gapes to bury all my grief! 240
Well, thou shalt have it, thou shalt be his tomb:
My faith in my love live; in thee, die woe;
Die, unmatch’d anguish, die, Antonio!”
With that he totter’d from the reeling deck,
And down he sunk.
Ros. Pleasure’s body! what makes my Lady weep?
Mel. Nothing, sweet Rossaline, but the air’s sharp[74] —
My father’s palace, Madam, will be proud
To entertain your presence, if you’ll deign
To make repose within. Ay me! 250
Ant. Lady, our fashion is not curious.[75]
Ros. ’Faith, all the nobler, ’tis more generous.
Mel. Shall I then know how fortune fell at last,
What succour came, or what strange fate ensued?
Ant. Most willingly: but this same court is vast,
And public to the staring multitude.
Ros. Sweet Lady, nay good sweet, now by my troth
We’ll be bedfellows: dirt on compliment froth![76]
[Exeunt; Rossaline giving Antonio the way.