SEBASTIAN.
He’s gone.
ANTONIO.
Then tell me,
Who’s the next heir of Naples?
SEBASTIAN.
Claribel.
ANTONIO.
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 newborn 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.
SEBASTIAN.
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.
ANTONIO.
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?
SEBASTIAN.
Methinks I do.
ANTONIO.
And how does your content
Tender your own good fortune?
SEBASTIAN.
I remember
You did supplant your brother Prospero.
ANTONIO.
True.
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.