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?

Then, tell me, Who’s the next heir of Naples?

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’ the moon’s too slow⁠—till new-born 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.

What stuff is this! how say you? ’Tis true, my brother’s daughter’s queen of Tunis; So is she heir of Naples; ’twixt which regions There is some space.