They fell together all, as by consent; They dropp’d, as by a thunder-stroke. What might, Worthy Sebastian? O, what might! No more!

And yet methinks I see it in thy face, What thou shouldst be; th’ occasion speaks thee; and My strong imagination sees a crown Dropping upon thy head.

SEBASTIAN What, art thou waking? ANTONIO Do you not hear me speak? SEBASTIAN I do; and surely It is a sleepy language, and thou speak’st Out of thy sleep. What is it thou didst say? This is a strange repose, to be asleep With eyes wide open; standing, speaking, moving, And yet so fast asleep.

ANTONIO Noble Sebastian, Thou let’st thy fortune sleep-die rather; wink’st Whiles thou art waking.

SEBASTIAN Thou dost snore distinctly; There’s meaning in thy snores.

ANTONIO I am more serious than my custom; you Must be so too, if heed me; which to do Trebles thee o’er.

SEBASTIAN Well, I am standing water. ANTONIO I’ll teach you how to flow. SEBASTIAN Do so: to ebb, Hereditary sloth instructs me. ANTONIO O, If you but knew how you the purpose cherish, Whiles thus you mock it! how, in stripping it, You more invest it! Ebbing men indeed, Most often, do so near the bottom run By their own fear or sloth.

SEBASTIAN Prithee say on.

The setting of thine eye and cheek proclaim A matter from thee; and a birth, indeed, Which throes thee much to yield.

ANTONIO Thus, sir: Although this lord of weak remembrance, this Who shall be of as little memory When he is earth’d, hath here almost persuaded For he’s a spirit of persuasion, only Professes to persuade-the King his son’s alive, ‘Tis as impossible that he’s undrown’d As he that sleeps here swims.

SEBASTIAN I have no hope That he’s undrown’d.

ANTONIO O, out of that ‘no hope’ What great hope have you! No hope that way is Another way so high a hope, that even Ambition cannot pierce a wink beyond, But doubt discovery there. Will you grant with me That Ferdinand is drown’d? 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.