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. SALERIO. Your mind is tossing on the ocean; There where
your argosies, with portly sail- Like signiors and rich burghers on
the flood, Or as it were the pageants of the sea- Do overpeer the
petty traffickers, That curtsy to them, do them reverence, As they
fly by them with their woven wings.
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