Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow.
Fer. Where should this music be? [i’ th’ air or th’ earth?]
It sounds no more: and, sure, it waits upon
Some god o’ th’ island. Sitting on a bank,
390 Weeping [again] the king my father’s wreck,
This music crept by me upon the waters,
Allaying both their fury and my passion
With its sweet air: thence I have follow’d it.
Or it hath drawn me rather. But ’tis gone.
395 No, it begins again.