Publisher's Synopsis
ANTONIO.In sooth I know not why I am so sad, It wearies me. you say it wearies you;But how I caught it, found it, or came by it, What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born, I am to learn.And such a want-wit sadness makes of me, That I have much ado to know myself.SALARINO.Your mind is tossing on the ocean, There where your argosies, with portly sailLike signiors and rich burghers on the flood, Or as it were the pageants of the sea, Do overpeer the petty traffickersThat curtsy to them, do them reverence, As they fly by them with their woven wings.SOLANIO.Believe me, sir, had I such venture forth, The better part of my affections wouldBe with my hopes abroad. I should be stillPlucking the grass to know where sits the wind, Peering in maps for ports, and piers and roads;And every object that might make me fearMisfortune to my ventures, out of doubtWould make me sad.SALARINO.My wind cooling my brothWould blow me to an ague when I thoughtWhat harm a wind too great might do at sea.I should not see the sandy hour-glass runBut I should think of shallows and of flats, And see my wealthy Andrew dock'd in sand, Vailing her high top lower than her ribsTo kiss her burial. Should I go to churchAnd see the holy edifice of stoneAnd not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks, Which, touching but my gentle vessel's side, Would scatter all her spices on the stream, Enrobe the roaring waters
