He is drowned
Whom thus we stray to find, and the sea mocks
Our frustrate search on land. Well, let him go. (III.iii.)
A living drollery. Now I will believe
That there are unicorns, that in Arabia
There is one tree, the phoenix’ throne, one phoenix
At this hour reigning there. (III.iii.)
You fools! I and my fellows
Are ministers of fate. The elements
Of whom your swords are tempered may as well
Wound the loud winds, or with bemocked-at stabs
Kill the still-closing waters, as diminish
One dowl that’s in my plume. My fellow ministers
Are like invulnerable. (III.iii.)