Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Fran. Sir he may liue,
Fran. I saw him beate the surges vnder him,
Fran. And ride vpon their backes; he trod the water
Fran. Whose enmity he flung aside: and brested
Fran. The surge most swolne that met him: his bold head
Fran. 'Boue the contentious waues he kept, and oared
Fran. Himselfe with his good armes in lusty stroke
Fran. To th'shore; that ore his waue‑worne basis bowed
Fran. As stooping to releeue him: I not doubt
Fran. He came aliue to Land.
Alon. Alon.
Alon. No, no, hee's gone.
Seb. Seb.
Seb. Sir you may thank your selfe for this great losse,
Seb. That would not blesse our Europe with your daughter,
Seb. But rather loose her to an Affrican,
Seb. Where she at least, is banish'd from your eye,
Seb. Who hath cause to wet the greefe on't.
Alon. Pre‑thee peace.