ALONSO.
Prithee, peace.
SEBASTIAN.
You were kneel’d to, and importun’d otherwise
By all of us; and the fair soul herself
Weigh’d between loathness and obedience at
Which end o’ th’ beam should bow. We have 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.
ALONSO.
So is the dear’st o’ th’ loss.
GONZALO.
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.
SEBASTIAN.
Very well.
ANTONIO.
And most chirurgeonly.
GONZALO.
It is foul weather in us all, good sir,
When you are cloudy.
SEBASTIAN.
Foul weather?
ANTONIO.
Very foul.
GONZALO.
Had I plantation of this isle, my lord,—