Ant. What impossible matter will he make easy next?
Seb. I think he will carry this island home in his 85 pocket, and give it his son for an apple.
Ant. And, sowing the kernels of it in the sea, bring forth more islands.
Gon. [Ay.]
Ant. Why, in good time.
90 Gon. Sir, we were talking that our garments seem now as fresh as when we were at Tunis at the marriage of your daughter, who is now queen.
Ant. And the rarest that e’er came there.
Seb. Bate, I beseech you, widow Dido.
95 Ant. O, widow Dido! ay, widow Dido.
Gon. Is not, [sir, my doublet] as fresh as the first day I wore it? I mean, in a sort.