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6 The King's son have I landed by himself, Whom I left cooling of the air with sighs In an odd angle of the isle, and sitting, His arms in this sad knot.
7 Sir, I invite your Highness and your train To my poor cell, where you shall take your rest For this one night, which part of it I'll waste With such discourse as, I not doubt, shall make it Go quick away: the story of my life And the particular accidents gone by Since I came to this isle.
8 Thee of thy son, Alonso, They have bereft; and do pronounce by me Ling'ring perdition, worse than any death Can be at once, shall step by step attend You and your ways, whose wraths to guard you from--Which here, in this most desolate isle, else falls Upon your heads--is nothing but heart's sorrow And a clear life ensuing.