{"collection":"sks","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/browse/sks/ff/tem.htm","path":"sks/ff/tem.htm","source_url":"https://sacred-texts.com/sks/ff/tem.htm","text":"Actus primus, Scena prima.\nA tempestuous noise of Thunder and Lightning heard: Enter a\nShip-master,\nand a Boteswaine.\nMaster. Bote-swaine.\nBotes. Heere Master: What cheere?\nMast. Good: Speake to th' Mariners: fall\ntoo't, yarely, or we run our selues a ground,\nbestirre, bestirre.\nEnter.\nEnter Mariners.\nBotes. Heigh my hearts, cheerely, cheerely my harts:\nyare, yare: Take in the toppe-sale: Tend to th' Masters\nwhistle: Blow till thou burst thy winde, if roome enough.\nEnter Alonso, Sebastian, Anthonio, Ferdinando, Gonzalo, and\nothers.\nAlon. Good Boteswaine haue care: where's the Master?\nPlay the men.\nBotes. I pray now keepe below.\nAnth. Where is the Master, Boson?\nBotes. Do you not heare him? you marre our labour,\nKeepe your Cabines: you do assist the storme.\nGonz. Nay, good be patient.\nBotes. When the Sea is: hence, what cares these roarers\nfor the name of King? to Cabine; silence: trouble vs not.\nGon. Good, yet remember whom thou hast aboord.\nBotes. None that I more loue then my selfe. You are\na Counsellor, if you can command these Elements to silence,\nand worke the peace of the present, wee will not\nhand a rope more, vse your authoritie: If you cannot,\ngiue thankes you haue liu'd so long, and make your\nselfe readie in your Cabine for the mischance of the\nhoure, if it so hap. Cheerely good hearts: out of our\nway I say.\nEnter.\nGon. I haue great comfort from this fellow: methinks\nhe hath no drowning marke vpon him, his complexion\nis perfect Gallowes: stand fast good Fate to his hanging,\nmake the rope of his destiny our cable, for our\nowne doth little aduantage: If he be not borne to bee\nhang'd, our case is miserable.\nEnter.\nEnter Boteswaine\nBotes. Downe with the top-Mast: yare, lower, lower,\nbring her to Try with Maine-course. A plague -\nA cry within. Enter Sebastian, Anthonio & Gonzalo.\nvpon this howling: they are lowder then the weather,\nor our office: yet againe? What do you heere? Shal we\ngiue ore and drowne, haue you a minde to sinke?\nSebas. A poxe o'your throat, you bawling, blasphemous\nincharitable Dog.\nBotes. Worke you then.\nAnth. Hang cur, hang, you whoreson insolent Noyse-maker,\nwe are lesse afraid to be drownde, then thou art.\nGonz. I'le warrant him for drowning, though the\nShip were no stronger then a Nutt-shell, and as leaky as\nan vnstanched wench.\nBotes. Lay her a hold, a hold, set her two courses off\nto Sea againe, lay her off.\nEnter Mariners wet.\nMari. All lost, to prayers, to prayers, all lost.\nBotes. What must our mouths be cold?\nGonz. The King, and Prince, at prayers, let's assist them,\nfor our case is as theirs\nSebas. I'am out of patience\nAn. We are meerly cheated of our liues by drunkards,\nThis wide-chopt-rascall, would thou mightst lye drowning\nthe washing of ten Tides\nGonz. Hee'l be hang'd yet,\nThough euery drop of water sweare against it,\nAnd gape at widst to glut him.\nA confused noyse within.\nMercy on vs.\nWe split, we split, Farewell my wife, and children,\nFarewell brother: we split, we split, we split\nAnth. Let's all sinke with' King\nSeb. Let's take leaue of him.\nEnter.\nGonz. Now would I giue a thousand furlongs of Sea,\nfor an Acre of barren ground: Long heath, Browne\nfirrs, any thing; the wills aboue be done, but I would\nfaine dye a dry death.\nEnter.\nScena Secunda.\nEnter Prospero and Miranda.\nMira. If by your Art (my deerest father) you haue\nPut the wild waters in this Rore; alay them:\nThe skye it seemes would powre down stinking pitch,\nBut that the Sea, mounting to th' welkins cheeke,\nDashes the fire out. Oh! I haue suffered\nWith those that I saw suffer: A braue vessell\n(Who had no doubt some noble creature in her)\nDash'd all to peeces: O the cry did knocke\nAgainst my very heart: poore soules, they perish'd.\nHad I byn any God of power, I would\nHaue suncke the Sea within the Earth, or ere\nIt should the good Ship so haue swallow'd, and\nThe fraughting Soules within her\nPros. Be collected,\nNo more amazement: Tell your pitteous heart\nthere's no harme done\nMira. O woe, the day\nPros. No harme:\nI haue done nothing, but in care of thee\n(Of thee my deere one; thee my daughter) who\nArt ignorant of what thou art. naught knowing\nOf whence I am: nor that I am more better\nThen Prospero, Master of a full poore cell,\nAnd thy no greater Father\nMira. More to know\nDid neuer medle with my thoughts\nPros. 'Tis time\nI should informe thee farther: Lend thy hand\nAnd plucke my Magick garment from me: So,\nLye there my Art: wipe thou thine eyes, haue comfort,\nThe direfull spectacle of the wracke which touch'd\nThe very vertue of compassion in thee:\nI haue with such prouision in mine Art\nSo safely ordered, that there is no soule\nNo not so much perdition as an hayre\nBetid to any creature in the vessell\nWhich thou heardst cry, which thou saw'st sinke: Sit downe,\nFor thou must now know farther\nMira. You haue often\nBegun to tell me what I am, but stopt\nAnd left me to a bootelesse Inquisition,\nConcluding, stay: not yet\nPros. The howr's now come\nThe very minute byds thee ope thine eare,\nObey, and be attentiue. Canst thou remember\nA time before we came vnto this Cell?\nI doe not thinke thou canst, for then thou was't not\nOut three yeeres old\nMira. Certainely Sir, I can\nPros. By what? by any other house, or person?\nOf any thing the Image, tell me, that\nHath kept with thy remembrance\nMira. 'Tis farre off:\nAnd rather like a dreame, then an assurance\nThat my remembrance warrants: Had I not\nFowre, or fiue women once, that tended me?\nPros. Thou hadst; and more Miranda: But how is it\nThat this liues in thy minde? What seest thou els\nIn the dark-backward and Abisme of Time?\nYf thou remembrest ought ere thou cam'st here,\nHow thou cam'st here thou maist\nMira. But that I doe not\nPros. Twelue yere since (Miranda) twelue yere since,\nThy father was the Duke of Millaine and\nA Prince of power:\nMira. Sir, are not you my Father?\nPros. Thy Mother was a peece of vertue, and\nShe said thou wast my daughter; and thy father\nWas Duke of Millaine, and his onely heire,\nAnd Princesse; no worse Issued\nMira. O the heauens,\nWhat fowle play had we, that we came from thence?\nOr blessed was't we did?\nPros. Both, both my Girle.\nBy fowle-play (as thou saist) were we heau'd thence,\nBut blessedly holpe hither\nMira. O my heart bleedes\nTo thinke oth' teene that I haue turn'd you to,\nWhich is from my remembrance, please you, farther;\nPros. My brother and thy vncle, call'd Anthonio:\nI pray thee marke me, that a brother should\nBe so perfidious: he, whom next thy selfe\nOf all the world I lou'd, and to him put\nThe mannage of my state, as at that time\nThrough all the signories it was the first,\nAnd Prospero, the prime Duke, being so reputed\nIn dignity; and for the liberall Artes,\nWithout a paralell; those being all my studie,\nThe Gouernment I cast vpon my brother,\nAnd to my State grew stranger, being transported\nAnd rapt in secret studies, thy false vncle\n(Do'st thou attend me?)\nMira. Sir, most heedefully\nPros. Being once perfected how to graunt suites,\nhow to deny them: who t' aduance, and who\nTo trash for ouer-topping; new created\nThe creatures that were mine, I say, or chang'd 'em,\nOr els new form'd 'em; hauing both the key,\nOf Officer, and office, set all hearts i'th state\nTo what tune pleas'd his eare, that now he was\nThe Iuy which had hid my princely Trunck,\nAnd suckt my verdure out on't: Thou attend'st not?\nMira. O good Sir, I doe\nPros. I pray thee marke me:\nI thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated\nTo closenes, and the bettering of my mind\nwith that, which but by being so retir'd\nOre-priz'd all popular rate: in my false brother\nAwak'd an euill nature, and my trust\nLike a good parent, did beget of him\nA falsehood in it's contrarie, as great\nAs my trust was, which had indeede no limit,\nA confidence sans bound. He being thus Lorded,\nNot onely with what my reuenew yeelded,\nBut what my power might els exact. Like one\nWho hauing into truth, by telling of it,\nMade such a synner of his memorie\nTo credite his owne lie, he did beleeue\nHe was indeed the Duke, out o'th' Substitution\nAnd executing th' outward face of Roialtie\nWith all prerogatiue: hence his Ambition growing:\nDo'st thou heare ?\nMira. Your tale, Sir, would cure deafenesse\nPros. To haue no Schreene between this part he plaid,\nAnd him he plaid it for, he needes will be\nAbsolute Millaine, Me (poore man) my Librarie\nWas Dukedome large enough: of temporall roalties\nHe thinks me now incapable. Confederates\n(so drie he was for Sway) with King of Naples\nTo giue him Annuall tribute, doe him homage\nSubiect his Coronet, to his Crowne and bend\nThe Dukedom yet vnbow'd (alas poore Millaine)\nTo most ignoble stooping\nMira. Oh the heauens:\nPros. Marke his condition, and th' euent, then tell me\nIf this might be a brother\nMira. I should sinne\nTo thinke but Noblie of my Grand-mother,\nGood wombes haue borne bad sonnes\nPro. Now the Condition.\nThis King of Naples being an Enemy\nTo me inueterate, hearkens my Brothers suit,\nWhich was, That he in lieu o'th' premises,\nOf homage, and I know not how much Tribute,\nShould presently extirpate me and mine\nOut of the Dukedome, and confer faire Millaine\nWith all the Honors, on my brother: Whereon\nA treacherous Armie leuied, one mid-night\nFated to th' purpose, did Anthonio open\nThe gates of Millaine, and ith' dead of darkenesse\nThe ministers for th' purpose hurried thence\nMe, and thy crying selfe\nMir. Alack, for pitty:\nI not remembring how I cride out then\nWill cry it ore againe: it is a hint\nThat wrings mine eyes too't\nPro. Heare a little further,\nAnd then I'le bring thee to the present businesse\nWhich now's vpon's: without the which, this Story\nWere most impertinent\nMir. Wherefore did they not\nThat howre destroy vs?\nPro. Well demanded, wench:\nMy Tale prouokes that question: Deare, they durst not,\nSo deare the loue my people bore me: nor set\nA marke so bloudy on the businesse; but\nWith colours fairer, painted their foule ends.\nIn few, they hurried vs aboord a Barke,\nBore vs some Leagues to Sea, where they prepared\nA rotten carkasse of a Butt, not rigg'd,\nNor tackle, sayle, nor mast, the very rats\nInstinctiuely haue quit it: There they hoyst vs\nTo cry to th' Sea, that roard to vs; to sigh\nTo th' windes, whose pitty sighing backe againe\nDid vs but louing wrong\nMir. Alack, what trouble\nWas I then to you?\nPro. O, a Cherubin\nThou was't that did preserue me; Thou didst smile,\nInfused with a fortitude from heauen,\nWhen I haue deck'd the sea with drops full salt,\nVnder my burthen groan'd, which rais'd in me\nAn vndergoing stomacke, to beare vp\nAgainst what should ensue\nMir. How came we a shore?\nPro. By prouidence diuine,\nSome food, we had, and some fresh water, that\nA noble Neopolitan Gonzalo\nOut of his Charity, (who being then appointed\nMaster of this designe) did giue vs, with\nRich garments, linnens, stuffs, and necessaries\nWhich since haue steeded much, so of his gentlenesse\nKnowing I lou'd my bookes, he furnishd me\nFrom mine owne Library, with volumes, that\nI prize aboue my Dukedome\nMir. Would I might\nBut euer see that man\nPro. Now I arise,\nSit still, and heare the last of our sea-sorrow:\nHeere in this Iland we arriu'd, and heere\nHaue I, thy Schoolemaster, made thee more profit\nThen other Princesse can, that haue more time\nFor vainer howres; and Tutors, not so carefull\nMir. Heuens thank you for't. And now I pray you Sir,\nFor still 'tis beating in my minde; your reason\nFor raysing this Sea-storme?\nPro. Know thus far forth,\nBy accident most strange, bountifull Fortune\n(Now my deere Lady) hath mine enemies\nBrought to this shore: And by my prescience\nI finde my Zenith doth depend vpon\nA most auspitious starre, whose influence\nIf now I court not, but omit; my fortunes\nWill euer after droope: Heare cease more questions,\nThou art inclinde to sleepe: 'tis a good dulnesse,\nAnd giue it way: I know thou canst not chuse:\nCome away, Seruant, come; I am ready now,\nApproach my Ariel. Come.\nEnter Ariel.\nAri. All haile, great Master, graue Sir, haile: I come\nTo answer thy best pleasure; be't to fly,\nTo swim, to diue into the fire: to ride\nOn the curld clowds: to thy strong bidding, taske\nAriel, and all his Qualitie\nPro. Hast thou, Spirit,\nPerformd to point, the Tempest that I bad thee\nAr. To euery Article.\nI boorded the Kings ship: now on the Beake,\nNow in the Waste, the Decke, in euery Cabyn,\nI flam'd amazement, sometime I'ld diuide\nAnd burne in many places; on the Top-mast,\nThe Yards and Bore-spritt, would I flame distinctly,\nThen meete, and ioyne. Ioues Lightning, the precursers\nO'th dreadfull Thunder-claps more momentarie\nAnd sight out-running were not; the fire, and cracks\nOf sulphurous roaring, the most mighty Neptune\nSeeme to besiege, and make his bold waues tremble,\nYea, his dread Trident shake\nPro. My braue Spirit,\nWho was so firme, so constant, that this coyle\nWould not infect his reason?\nAr. Not a soule\nBut felt a Feauer of the madde, and plaid\nSome tricks of desperation; all but Mariners\nPlung'd in the foaming bryne, and quit the vessell;\nThen all a fire with me the Kings sonne Ferdinand\nWith haire vp-staring (then like reeds, not haire)\nWas the first man that leapt; cride hell is empty,\nAnd all the Diuels are heere\nPro. Why that's my spirit:\nBut was not this nye shore?\nAr. Close by, my Master\nPro. But are they (Ariell) safe?\nAr. Not a haire perishd:\nOn their sustaining garments not a blemish,\nBut fresher then before: and as thou badst me,\nIn troops I haue dispersd them 'bout the Isle:\nThe Kings sonne haue I landed by himselfe,\nWhom I left cooling of the Ayre with sighes,\nIn an odde Angle of the Isle, and sitting\nHis armes in this sad knot\nPro. Of the Kings ship,\nThe Marriners, say how thou hast disposd,\nAnd all the rest o'th' Fleete?\nAr. Safely in harbour\nIs the Kings shippe, in the deepe Nooke, where once\nThou calldst me vp at midnight to fetch dewe\nFrom the still-vext Bermoothes, there she's hid;\nThe Marriners all vnder hatches stowed,\nWho, with a Charme ioynd to their suffred labour\nI haue left asleep: and for the rest o'th' Fleet\n(Which I dispers'd) they all haue met againe,\nAnd are vpon the Mediterranian Flote\nBound sadly home for Naples,\nSupposing that they saw the Kings ship wrackt,\nAnd his great person perish\nPro. Ariel, thy charge\nExactly is perform'd; but there's more worke:\nWhat is the time o'th' day?\nAr. Past the mid season\nPro. At least two Glasses: the time 'twixt six & now\nMust by vs both be spent most preciously\nAr. Is there more toyle? Since y dost giue me pains,\nLet me remember thee what thou hast promis'd,\nWhich is not yet perform'd me\nPro. How now? moodie?\nWhat is't thou canst demand?\nAr. My Libertie\nPro. Before the time be out? no more:\nAr. I prethee,\nRemember I haue done thee worthy seruice,\nTold thee no lyes, made thee no mistakings, serv'd\nWithout or grudge, or grumblings; thou did promise\nTo bate me a full yeere\nPro. Do'st thou forget\nFrom what a torment I did free thee?\nAr. No\nPro. Thou do'st: & thinkst it much to tread y Ooze\nOf the salt deepe;\nTo run vpon the sharpe winde of the North,\nTo doe me businesse in the veines o'th' earth\nWhen it is bak'd with frost\nAr. I doe not Sir\nPro. Thou liest, malignant Thing: hast thou forgot\nThe fowle Witch Sycorax, who with Age and Enuy\nWas growne into a hoope? hast thou forgot her?\nAr. No Sir\nPro. Thou hast: where was she born? speak: tell me:\nAr. Sir, in Argier\nPro. Oh, was she so: I must\nOnce in a moneth recount what thou hast bin,\nWhich thou forgetst. This damn'd Witch Sycorax\nFor mischiefes manifold, and sorceries terrible\nTo enter humane hearing, from Argier\nThou know'st was banish'd: for one thing she did\nThey wold not take her life: Is not this true?\nAr. I, Sir\nPro. This blew ey'd hag, was hither brought with child,\nAnd here was left by th' Saylors; thou my slaue,\nAs thou reportst thy selfe, was then her seruant,\nAnd for thou wast a Spirit too delicate\nTo act her earthy, and abhord commands,\nRefusing her grand hests, she did confine thee\nBy helpe of her more potent Ministers,\nAnd in her most vnmittigable rage,\nInto a clouen Pyne, within which rift\nImprison'd, thou didst painefully remaine\nA dozen yeeres: within which space she di'd,\nAnd left thee there: where thou didst vent thy groanes\nAs fast as Mill-wheeles strike: Then was this Island\n(Saue for the Son, that he did littour heere,\nA frekelld whelpe, hag-borne) not honour'd with\nA humane shape\nAr. Yes: Caliban her sonne\nPro. Dull thing, I say so: he, that Caliban\nWhom now I keepe in seruice, thou best know'st\nWhat torment I did finde thee in; thy grones\nDid make wolues howle, and penetrate the breasts\nOf euer-angry Beares; it was a torment\nTo lay vpon the damn'd, which Sycorax\nCould not againe vndoe: it was mine Art,\nWhen I arriu'd, and heard thee, that made gape\nThe Pyne, and let thee out\nAr. I thanke thee Master\nPro. If thou more murmur'st, I will rend an Oake\nAnd peg-thee in his knotty entrailes, till\nThou hast howl'd away twelue winters\nAr. Pardon, Master,\nI will be correspondent to command\nAnd doe my spryting, gently\nPro. Doe so: and after two daies\nI will discharge thee\nAr. That's my noble Master:\nWhat shall I doe? say what? what shall I doe?\nPro. Goe make thy selfe like a Nymph o'th' Sea,\nBe subiect to no sight but thine, and mine: inuisible\nTo euery eye-ball else: goe take this shape\nAnd hither come in't: goe: hence\nWith diligence.\nEnter.\nPro. Awake, deere hart awake, thou hast slept well,\nAwake\nMir. The strangenes of your story, put\nHeauinesse in me\nPro. Shake it off: Come on,\nWee'll visit Caliban, my slaue, who neuer\nYeelds vs kinde answere\nMir. 'Tis a villaine Sir, I doe not loue to looke on\nPro. But as 'tis\nWe cannot misse him: he do's make our fire,\nFetch in our wood, and serues in Offices\nThat profit vs: What hoa: slaue: Caliban:\nThou Earth, thou: speake\nCal. within. There's wood enough within\nPro. Come forth I say, there's other busines for thee:\nCome thou Tortoys, when?\nEnter Ariel like a water Nymph.\nFine apparision: my queint Ariel,\nHearke in thine eare\nAr. My Lord, it shall be done.\nEnter.\nPro. Thou poysonous slaue, got by y diuell himselfe\nVpon thy wicked Dam; come forth.\nEnter Caliban.\nCal. As wicked dewe, as ere my mother brush'd\nWith Rauens feather from vnwholesome Fen\nDrop on you both: A Southwest blow on yee,\nAnd blister you all ore\nPro. For this be sure, to night thou shalt haue cramps,\nSide-stitches, that shall pen thy breath vp, Vrchins\nShall for that vast of night, that they may worke\nAll exercise on thee: thou shalt be pinch'd\nAs thicke as hony-combe, each pinch more stinging\nThen Bees that made 'em\nCal. I must eat my dinner:\nThis Island's mine by Sycorax my mother,\nWhich thou tak'st from me: when thou cam'st first\nThou stroakst me, & made much of me: wouldst giue me\nWater with berries in't: and teach me how\nTo name the bigger Light, and how the lesse\nThat burne by day, and night: and then I lou'd thee\nAnd shew'd thee all the qualities o'th' Isle,\nThe fresh Springs, Brine-pits; barren place and fertill,\nCurs'd be I that did so: All the Charmes\nOf Sycorax: Toades, Beetles, Batts light on you:\nFor I am all the Subiects that you haue,\nWhich first was min owne King: and here you sty-me\nIn this hard Rocke, whiles you doe keepe from me\nThe rest o'th' Island\nPro. Thou most lying slaue,\nWhom stripes may moue, not kindnes: I haue vs'd thee\n(Filth as thou art) with humane care, and lodg'd thee\nIn mine owne Cell, till thou didst seeke to violate\nThe honor of my childe\nCal. Oh ho, oh ho, would't had bene done:\nThou didst preuent me, I had peopel'd else\nThis Isle with Calibans\nMira. Abhorred Slaue,\nWhich any print of goodnesse wilt not take,\nBeing capable of all ill: I pittied thee,\nTook pains to make thee speak, taught thee each houre\nOne thing or other: when thou didst not (Sauage)\nKnow thine owne meaning; but wouldst gabble, like\nA thing most brutish, I endow'd thy purposes\nWith words that made them knowne: But thy vild race\n(Tho thou didst learn) had that in't, which good natures\nCould not abide to be with; therefore wast thou\nDeseruedly confin'd into this Rocke, who hadst\nDeseru'd more then a prison\nCal. You taught me Language, and my profit on't\nIs, I know how to curse: the red-plague rid you\nFor learning me your language\nPros. Hag-seed, hence:\nFetch vs in Fewell, and be quicke thou'rt best\nTo answer other businesse: shrug'st thou (Malice)\nIf thou neglectst, or dost vnwillingly\nWhat I command, Ile racke thee with old Crampes,\nFill all thy bones with Aches, make thee rore,\nThat beasts shall tremble at thy dyn\nCal. No, 'pray thee.\nI must obey, his Art is of such pow'r,\nIt would controll my Dams god Setebos,\nAnd make a vassaile of him\nPro. So slaue, hence.\nExit Cal.\nEnter Ferdinand & Ariel, inuisible playing & singing.\nAriel Song. Come vnto these yellow sands, and then\ntake hands:\nCurtsied when you haue, and kist the wilde waues whist:\nFoote it featly heere, and there, and sweete Sprights beare\nthe burthen.\nBurthen dispersedly.\nHarke, harke, bowgh wawgh: the watch-Dogges barke,\nbowgh-wawgh\nAr. Hark, hark, I heare, the straine of strutting Chanticlere\ncry cockadidle-dowe\nFer. Where shold this Musick be? I'th aire, or th' earth?\nIt sounds no more: and sure it waytes vpon\nSome God o'th' Iland, sitting on a banke,\nWeeping againe the King my Fathers wracke.\nThis Musicke crept by me vpon the waters,\nAllaying both their fury, and my passion\nWith it's sweet ayre: thence I haue follow'd it\n(Or it hath drawne me rather) but 'tis gone.\nNo, it begins againe\nAriell Song. Full fadom fiue thy Father lies,\nOf his bones are Corrall made:\nThose are pearles that were his eies,\nNothing of him that doth fade,\nBut doth suffer a Sea-change\nInto something rich, & strange:\nSea-Nimphs hourly ring his knell.\nBurthen: ding dong.\nHarke now I heare them, ding-dong bell\nFer. The Ditty do's remember my drown'd father,\nThis is no mortall busines, nor no sound\nThat the earth owes: I heare it now aboue me\nPro. The fringed Curtaines of thine eye aduance,\nAnd say what thou see'st yond\nMira. What is't a Spirit?\nLord, how it lookes about: Beleeue me sir,\nIt carries a braue forme. But 'tis a spirit\nPro. No wench, it eats, and sleeps, & hath such senses\nAs we haue: such. This Gallant which thou seest\nWas in the wracke: and but hee's something stain'd\nWith greefe (that's beauties canker) y might'st call him\nA goodly person: he hath lost his fellowes,\nAnd strayes about to finde 'em\nMir. I might call him\nA thing diuine, for nothing naturall\nI euer saw so Noble\nPro. It goes on I see\nAs my soule prompts it: Spirit, fine spirit, Ile free thee\nWithin two dayes for this\nFer. Most sure the Goddesse\nOn whom these ayres attend: Vouchsafe my pray'r\nMay know if you remaine vpon this Island,\nAnd that you will some good instruction giue\nHow I may beare me heere: my prime request\n(Which I do last pronounce) is (O you wonder)\nIf you be Mayd, or no?\nMir. No wonder Sir,\nBut certainly a Mayd\nFer. My Language? Heauens:\nI am the best of them that speake this speech,\nWere I but where 'tis spoken\nPro. How? the best?\nWhat wer't thou if the King of Naples heard thee?\nFer. A single thing, as I am now, that wonders\nTo heare thee speake of Naples: he do's heare me,\nAnd that he do's, I weepe: my selfe am Naples,\nWho, with mine eyes (neuer since at ebbe) beheld\nThe King my Father wrack't\nMir. Alacke, for mercy\nFer. Yes faith, & all his Lords, the Duke of Millaine\nAnd his braue sonne, being twaine\nPro. The Duke of Millaine\nAnd his more brauer daughter, could controll thee\nIf now 'twere fit to do't: At the first sight\nThey haue chang'd eyes: Delicate Ariel,\nIle set thee free for this. A word good Sir,\nI feare you haue done your selfe some wrong: A word\nMir. Why speakes my father so vngently? This\nIs the third man that ere I saw: the first\nThat ere I sigh'd for: pitty moue my father\nTo be enclin'd my way\nFer. O, if a Virgin,\nAnd your affection not gone forth, Ile make you\nThe Queene of Naples\nPro. Soft sir, one word more.\nThey are both in eythers pow'rs: But this swift busines\nI must vneasie make, least too light winning\nMake the prize light. One word more: I charge thee\nThat thou attend me: Thou do'st heere vsurpe\nThe name thou ow'st not, and hast put thy selfe\nVpon this Island, as a spy, to win it\nFrom me, the Lord on't\nFer. No, as I am a man\nMir. Ther's nothing ill, can dwell in such a Temple,\nIf the ill-spirit haue so fayre a house,\nGood things will striue to dwell with't\nPro. Follow me\nPros. Speake not you for him: hee's a Traitor: come,\nIle manacle thy necke and feete together:\nSea water shalt thou drinke: thy food shall be\nThe fresh-brooke Mussels, wither'd roots, and huskes\nWherein the Acorne cradled. Follow\nFer. No,\nI will resist such entertainment, till\nMine enemy ha's more pow'r.\nHe drawes, and is charmed from mouing.\nMira. O deere Father,\nMake not too rash a triall of him, for\nHee's gentle, and not fearfull\nPros. What I say,\nMy foote my Tutor? Put thy sword vp Traitor,\nWho mak'st a shew, but dar'st not strike: thy conscience\nIs so possest with guilt: Come, from thy ward,\nFor I can heere disarme thee with this sticke,\nAnd make thy weapon drop\nMira. Beseech you Father\nPros. Hence: hang not on my garments\nMira. Sir haue pity,\nIle be his surety\nPros. Silence: One word more\nShall make me chide thee, if not hate thee: What,\nAn aduocate for an Impostor? Hush:\nThou think'st there is no more such shapes as he,\n(Hauing seene but him and Caliban:) Foolish wench,\nTo th' most of men, this is a Caliban,\nAnd they to him are Angels\nMira. My affections\nAre then most humble: I haue no ambition\nTo see a goodlier man\nPros. Come on, obey:\nThy Nerues are in their infancy againe.\nAnd haue no vigour in them\nFer. So they are:\nMy spirits, as in a dreame, are all bound vp:\nMy Fathers losse, the weaknesse which I feele,\nThe wracke of all my friends, nor this mans threats,\nTo whom I am subdude, are but light to me,\nMight I but through my prison once a day\nBehold this Mayd: all corners else o'th' Earth\nLet liberty make vse of: space enough\nHaue I in such a prison\nPros. It workes: Come on.\nThou hast done well, fine Ariell: follow me,\nHarke what thou else shalt do mee\nMira. Be of comfort,\nMy Fathers of a better nature (Sir)\nThen he appeares by speech: this is vnwonted\nWhich now came from him\nPros. Thou shalt be as free\nAs mountaine windes; but then exactly do\nAll points of my command\nAriell. To th' syllable\nPros. Come follow: speake not for him.\nExeunt.\nActus Secundus. Scoena Prima.\nEnter Alonso, Sebastian, Anthonio, Gonzalo, Adrian, Francisco,\nand\nothers.\nGonz. Beseech you Sir, be merry; you haue cause,\n(So haue we all) of ioy; for our escape\nIs much beyond our losse; our hint of woe\nIs common, euery day, some Saylors wife,\nThe Masters of some Merchant, and the Merchant\nHaue iust our Theame of woe: But for the miracle,\n(I meane our preseruation) few in millions\nCan speake like vs: then wisely (good Sir) weigh\nOur sorrow, with our comfort\nAlons. Prethee peace\nSeb. He receiues comfort like cold porredge\nAnt. The Visitor will not giue him ore so\nSeb. Looke, hee's winding vp the watch of his wit,\nBy and by it will strike\nGon. Sir\nSeb. One: Tell\nGon. When euery greefe is entertaind,\nThat's offer'd comes to th' entertainer\nSeb. A dollor\nGon. Dolour comes to him indeed, you haue spoken\ntruer then you purpos'd\nSeb. You haue taken it wiselier then I meant you\nshould\nGon. Therefore my Lord\nAnt. Fie, what a spend-thrift is he of his tongue\nAlon. I pre-thee spare\nGon. Well, I haue done: But yet\nSeb. He will be talking\nAnt. Which, of he, or Adrian, for a good wager,\nFirst begins to crow?\nSeb. The old Cocke\nAnt. The Cockrell\nSeb. Done: The wager?\nAnt. A Laughter\nSeb. A match\nAdr. Though this Island seeme to be desert\nSeb. Ha, ha, ha\nAnt. So: you'r paid\nAdr. Vninhabitable, and almost inaccessible\nSeb. Yet\nAdr. Yet\nAnt. He could not misse't\nAdr. It must needs be of subtle, tender, and delicate\ntemperance\nAnt. Temperance was a delicate wench\nSeb. I, and a subtle, as he most learnedly deliuer'd\nAdr. The ayre breathes vpon vs here most sweetly\nSeb. As if it had Lungs, and rotten ones\nAnt. Or, as 'twere perfum'd by a Fen\nGon. Heere is euery thing aduantageous to life\nAnt. True, saue meanes to liue\nSeb. Of that there's none, or little\nGon. How lush and lusty the grasse lookes?\nHow greene?\nAnt. The ground indeed is tawny\nSeb. With an eye of greene in't\nAnt. He misses not much\nSeb. No: he doth but mistake the truth totally\nGon. But the rariety of it is, which is indeed almost\nbeyond credit\nSeb. As many voucht rarieties are\nGon. That our Garments being (as they were) drencht\nin the Sea, hold notwithstanding their freshnesse and\nglosses, being rather new dy'de then stain'd with salte\nwater\nAnt. If but one of his pockets could speake, would\nit not say he lyes?\nSeb. I, or very falsely pocket vp his report\nGon. Me thinkes our garments are now as fresh as\nwhen we put them on first in Affricke, at the marriage\nof the kings faire daughter Claribel to the king of Tunis\nSeb. 'Twas a sweet marriage, and we prosper well in\nour returne\nAdri. Tunis was neuer grac'd before with such a Paragon\nto their Queene\nGon. Not since widdow Dido's time\nAnt. Widow? A pox o'that: how came that Widdow\nin? Widdow Dido!\nSeb. What if he had said Widdower aeneas too?\nGood Lord, how you take it?\nAdri. Widdow Dido said you? You make me study\nof that: She was of Carthage, not of Tunis\nGon. This Tunis Sir was Carthage\nAdri. Carthage?\nGon. I assure you Carthage\nAnt. His word is more then the miraculous Harpe\nSeb. He hath rais'd the wall, and houses too\nAnt. What impossible matter wil he make easy next?\nSeb. I thinke hee will carry this Island home in his\npocket, and giue it his sonne for an Apple\nAnt. And sowing the kernels of it in the Sea, bring\nforth more Islands\nGon. I\nAnt. Why in good time\nGon. Sir, we were talking, that our garments seeme\nnow as fresh as when we were at Tunis at the marriage\nof your daughter, who is now Queene\nAnt. And the rarest that ere came there\nSeb. Bate (I beseech you) widdow Dido\nAnt. O Widdow Dido? I, Widdow Dido\nGon. Is not Sir my doublet as fresh as the first day I\nwore it? I meane in a sort\nAnt. That sort was well fish'd for\nGon. When I wore it at your daughters marriage\nAlon. You cram these words into mine eares, against\nthe stomacke of my sense: would I had neuer\nMarried my daughter there: For comming thence\nMy sonne is lost, and (in my rate) she too,\nWho is so farre from Italy remoued,\nI ne're againe shall see her: O thou mine heire\nOf Naples and of Millaine, what strange fish\nHath made his meale on thee?\nFran. Sir he may liue,\nI saw him beate the surges vnder him,\nAnd ride vpon their backes; he trod the water\nWhose enmity he flung aside: and brested\nThe surge most swolne that met him: his bold head\n'Boue the contentious waues he kept, and oared\nHimselfe with his good armes in lusty stroke\nTo th' shore; that ore his waue-worne basis bowed\nAs stooping to releeue him: I not doubt\nHe came aliue to Land\nAlon. No, no, hee's gone\nSeb. Sir you may thank your selfe for this great losse,\nThat would not blesse our Europe with your daughter,\nBut rather loose her to an Affrican,\nWhere she at least, is banish'd from your eye,\nWho hath cause to wet the greefe on't\nAlon. Pre-thee peace\nSeb. You were kneel'd too, & importun'd otherwise\nBy all of vs: and the faire soule her selfe\nWaigh'd betweene loathnesse, and obedience, at\nWhich end o'th' beame should bow: we haue lost your son,\nI feare for euer: Millaine and Naples haue\nMo widdowes in them of this businesse making,\nThen we bring men to comfort them:\nThe faults your owne\nAlon. So is the deer'st oth' losse\nGon. My Lord Sebastian,\nThe truth you speake doth lacke some gentlenesse,\nAnd time to speake it in: you rub the sore,\nWhen you should bring the plaister\nSeb. Very well\nAnt. And most Chirurgeonly\nGon. It is foule weather in vs all, good Sir,\nWhen you are cloudy\nSeb. Fowle weather?\nAnt. Very foule\nGon. Had I plantation of this Isle my Lord\nAnt. Hee'd sow't with Nettle-seed\nSeb. Or dockes, or Mallowes\nGon. And were the King on't, what would I do?\nSeb. Scape being drunke, for want of Wine\nGon. I'th' Commonwealth I would (by contraries)\nExecute all things: For no kinde of Trafficke\nWould I admit: No name of Magistrate:\nLetters should not be knowne: Riches, pouerty,\nAnd vse of seruice, none: Contract, Succession,\nBorne, bound of Land, Tilth, Vineyard none:\nNo vse of Mettall, Corne, or Wine, or Oyle:\nNo occupation, all men idle, all:\nAnd Women too, but innocent and pure:\nNo Soueraignty\nSeb. Yet he would be King on't\nAnt. The latter end of his Common-wealth forgets\nthe beginning\nGon. All things in common Nature should produce\nWithout sweat or endeuour: Treason, fellony,\nSword, Pike, Knife, Gun, or neede of any Engine\nWould I not haue: but Nature should bring forth\nOf it owne kinde, all foyzon, all abundance\nTo feed my innocent people\nSeb. No marrying 'mong his subiects?\nAnt. None (man) all idle; Whores and knaues,\nGon. I would with such perfection gouerne Sir:\nT' Excell the Golden Age\nSeb. 'Saue his Maiesty\nAnt. Long liue Gonzalo\nGon. And do you marke me, Sir?\nAlon. Pre-thee no more: thou dost talke nothing to me\nGon. I do well beleeue your Highnesse, and did it\nto minister occasion to these Gentlemen, who are of\nsuch sensible and nimble Lungs, that they alwayes vse\nto laugh at nothing\nAnt. 'Twas you we laugh'd at\nGon. Who, in this kind of merry fooling am nothing\nto you: so you may continue, and laugh at nothing still\nAnt. What a blow was there giuen?\nSeb. And it had not falne flat-long\nGon. You are Gentlemen of braue mettal: you would\nlift the Moone out of her spheare, if she would continue\nin it fiue weekes without changing.\nEnter Ariell playing solemne Musicke.\nSeb. We would so, and then go a Bat-fowling\nAnt. Nay good my Lord, be not angry\nGon. No I warrant you, I will not aduenture my\ndiscretion so weakly: Will you laugh me asleepe, for I\nam very heauy\nAnt. Go sleepe, and heare vs\nAlon. What, all so soone asleepe? I wish mine eyes\nWould (with themselues) shut vp my thoughts,\nI finde they are inclin'd to do so\nSeb. Please you Sir,\nDo not omit the heauy offer of it:\nIt sildome visits sorrow, when it doth, it is a Comforter\nAnt. We two my Lord, will guard your person,\nWhile you take your rest, and watch your safety\nAlon. Thanke you: Wondrous heauy\nSeb. What a strange drowsines possesses them?\nAnt. It is the quality o'th' Clymate\nSeb. Why\nDoth it not then our eye-lids sinke? I finde\nNot my selfe dispos'd to sleep\nAnt. Nor I, my spirits are nimble:\nThey fell together all, as by consent\nThey dropt, as by a Thunder-stroke: what might\nWorthy Sebastian? O, what might? no more:\nAnd yet, me thinkes I see it in thy face,\nWhat thou should'st be: th' occasion speaks thee, and\nMy strong imagination see's a Crowne\nDropping vpon thy head\nSeb. What? art thou waking?\nAnt. Do you not heare me speake?\nSeb. I do, and surely\nIt is a sleepy Language; and thou speak'st\nOut of thy sleepe: What is it thou didst say?\nThis is a strange repose, to be asleepe\nWith eyes wide open: standing, speaking, mouing:\nAnd yet so fast asleepe\nAnt. Noble Sebastian,\nThou let'st thy fortune sleepe: die rather: wink'st\nWhiles thou art waking\nSeb. Thou do'st snore distinctly,\nThere's meaning in thy snores\nAnt. I am more serious then my custome: you\nMust be so too, if heed me: which to do,\nTrebbles thee o're\nSeb. Well: I am standing water\nAnt. Ile teach you how to flow\nSeb. Do so: to ebbe\nHereditary Sloth instructs me\nAnt. O!\nIf you but knew how you the purpose cherish\nWhiles thus you mocke it: how in stripping it\nYou more inuest it: ebbing men, indeed\n(Most often) do so neere the bottome run\nBy their owne feare, or sloth\nSeb. 'Pre-thee say on,\nThe setting of thine eye, and cheeke proclaime\nA matter from thee; and a birth, indeed,\nWhich throwes thee much to yeeld\nAnt. Thus Sir:\nAlthough this Lord of weake remembrance; this\nWho shall be of as little memory\nWhen he is earth'd, hath here almost perswaded\n(For hee's a Spirit of perswasion, onely\nProfesses to perswade) the King his sonne's aliue,\n'Tis as impossible that hee's vndrown'd,\nAs he that sleepes heere, swims\nSeb. I haue no hope\nThat hee's vndrown'd\nAnt. O, out of that no hope,\nWhat great hope haue you? No hope that way, Is\nAnother way so high a hope, that euen\nAmbition cannot pierce a winke beyond\nBut doubt discouery there. Will you grant with me\nThat Ferdinand is drown'd\nSeb. He's gone\nAnt. Then tell me, who's the next heire of Naples?\nSeb. Claribell\nAnt. She that is Queene of Tunis: she that dwels\nTen leagues beyond mans life: she that from Naples\nCan haue no note, vnlesse the Sun were post:\nThe Man i'th Moone's too slow, till new-borne chinnes\nBe rough, and Razor-able: She that from whom\nWe all were sea-swallow'd, though some cast againe,\n(And by that destiny) to performe an act\nWhereof, what's past is Prologue; what to come\nIn yours, and my discharge\nSeb. What stuffe is this? How say you?\n'Tis true my brothers daughter's Queene of Tunis,\nSo is she heyre of Naples, 'twixt which Regions\nThere is some space\nAnt. A space, whose eu'ry cubit\nSeemes to cry out, how shall that Claribell\nMeasure vs backe to Naples? keepe in Tunis,\nAnd let Sebastian wake. Say, this were death\nThat now hath seiz'd them, why they were no worse\nThen now they are: There be that can rule Naples\nAs well as he that sleepes: Lords, that can prate\nAs amply, and vnnecessarily\nAs this Gonzallo: I my selfe could make\nA Chough of as deepe chat: O, that you bore\nThe minde that I do; what a sleepe were this\nFor your aduancement? Do you vnderstand me?\nSeb. Me thinkes I do\nAnt. And how do's your content\nTender your owne good fortune?\nSeb. I remember\nYou did supplant your Brother Prospero\nAnt. True:\nAnd looke how well my Garments sit vpon me,\nMuch feater then before: My Brothers seruants\nWere then my fellowes, now they are my men\nSeb. But for your conscience\nAnt. I Sir: where lies that? If 'twere a kybe\n'Twould put me to my slipper: But I feele not\nThis Deity in my bosome: 'Twentie consciences\nThat stand 'twixt me, and Millaine, candied be they,\nAnd melt ere they mollest: Heere lies your Brother,\nNo better then the earth he lies vpon,\nIf he were that which now hee's like (that's dead)\nWhom I with this obedient steele (three inches of it)\nCan lay to bed for euer: whiles you doing thus,\nTo the perpetuall winke for aye might put\nThis ancient morsell: this Sir Prudence, who\nShould not vpbraid our course: for all the rest\nThey'l take suggestion, as a Cat laps milke,\nThey'l tell the clocke, to any businesse that\nWe say befits the houre\nSeb. Thy case, deere Friend\nShall be my president: As thou got'st Millaine,\nI'le come by Naples: Draw thy sword, one stroke\nShall free thee from the tribute which thou paiest,\nAnd I the King shall loue thee\nAnt. Draw together:\nAnd when I reare my hand, do you the like\nTo fall it on Gonzalo\nSeb. O, but one word.\nEnter Ariell with Musicke and Song.\nAriel. My Master through his Art foresees the danger\nThat you (his friend) are in, and sends me forth\n(For else his proiect dies) to keepe them liuing.\nSings in Gonzaloes eare.\nWhile you here do snoaring lie,\nOpen-ey'd Conspiracie\nHis time doth take:\nIf of Life you keepe a care,\nShake off slumber and beware.\nAwake, awake\nAnt. Then let vs both be sodaine\nGon. Now, good Angels preserue the King\nAlo. Why how now hoa; awake? why are you drawn?\nWherefore this ghastly looking?\nGon. What's the matter?\nSeb. Whiles we stood here securing your repose,\n(Euen now) we heard a hollow burst of bellowing\nLike Buls, or rather Lyons, did't not wake you?\nIt strooke mine eare most terribly\nAlo. I heard nothing\nAnt. O, 'twas a din to fright a Monsters eare;\nTo make an earthquake: sure it was the roare\nOf a whole heard of Lyons\nAlo. Heard you this Gonzalo?\nGon. Vpon mine honour, Sir, I heard a humming,\n(And that a strange one too) which did awake me:\nI shak'd you Sir, and cride: as mine eyes opend,\nI saw their weapons drawne: there was a noyse,\nThat's verily: 'tis best we stand vpon our guard;\nOr that we quit this place: let's draw our weapons\nAlo. Lead off this ground & let's make further search\nFor my poore sonne\nGon. Heauens keepe him from these Beasts:\nFor he is sure i'th Island\nAlo. Lead away\nAriell. Prospero my Lord, shall know what I haue done.\nSo (King) goe safely on to seeke thy Son.\nExeunt.\nScoena Secunda.\nEnter Caliban, with a burthen of Wood (a noyse of thunder heard.)\nCal. All the infections that the Sunne suckes vp\nFrom Bogs, Fens, Flats, on Prosper fall, and make him\nBy ynch-meale a disease: his Spirits heare me,\nAnd yet I needes must curse. But they'll nor pinch,\nFright me with Vrchyn-shewes, pitch me i'th mire,\nNor lead me like a fire-brand, in the darke\nOut of my way, vnlesse he bid 'em; but\nFor euery trifle, are they set vpon me,\nSometime like Apes, that moe and chatter at me,\nAnd after bite me: then like Hedg-hogs, which\nLye tumbling in my bare-foote way, and mount\nTheir pricks at my foot-fall: sometime am I\nAll wound with Adders, who with clouen tongues\nDoe hisse me into madnesse: Lo, now Lo,\nEnter Trinculo.\nHere comes a Spirit of his, and to torment me\nFor bringing wood in slowly: I'le fall flat,\nPerchance he will not minde me\nTri. Here's neither bush, nor shrub to beare off any\nweather at all: and another Storme brewing, I heare it\nsing ith' winde: yond same blacke cloud, yond huge\none, lookes like a foule bumbard that would shed his\nlicquor: if it should thunder, as it did before, I know\nnot where to hide my head: yond same cloud cannot\nchoose but fall by pailefuls. What haue we here, a man,\nor a fish? dead or aliue? a fish, hee smels like a fish: a\nvery ancient and fish-like smell: a kinde of, not of the\nnewest poore-Iohn: a strange fish: were I in England\nnow (as once I was) and had but this fish painted; not\na holiday-foole there but would giue a peece of siluer:\nthere, would this Monster, make a man: any strange\nbeast there, makes a man: when they will not giue a\ndoit to relieue a lame Begger, they will lay out ten to see\na dead Indian: Leg'd like a man; and his Finnes like\nArmes: warme o'my troth: I doe now let loose my opinion;\nhold it no longer; this is no fish, but an Islander,\nthat hath lately suffered by a Thunderbolt: Alas,\nthe storme is come againe: my best way is to creepe vnder\nhis Gaberdine: there is no other shelter hereabout:\nMisery acquaints a man with strange bedfellowes:\nI will here shrowd till the dregges of the storme\nbe past.\nEnter Stephano singing..\nSte. I shall no more to sea, to sea, here shall I dye ashore.\nThis is a very scuruy tune to sing at a mans\nFunerall: well, here's my comfort.\nDrinkes.\nSings.\nThe Master, the Swabber, the Boate-swaine & I;\nThe Gunner, and his Mate\nLou'd Mall, Meg, and Marrian, and Margerie,\nBut none of vs car'd for Kate.\nFor she had a tongue with a tang,\nWould cry to a Sailor goe hang:\nShe lou'd not the sauour of Tar nor of Pitch,\nYet a Tailor might scratch her where ere she did itch.\nThen to Sea Boyes, and let her goe hang.\nThis is a scuruy tune too:\nBut here's my comfort.\nDrinks.\nCal. Doe not torment me: oh\nSte. What's the matter?\nHaue we diuels here?\nDoe you put trickes vpon's with Saluages, and Men of\nInde? ha? I haue not scap'd drowning, to be afeard\nnow of your foure legges: for it hath bin said; as proper\na man as euer went on foure legs, cannot make him\ngiue ground: and it shall be said so againe, while Stephano\nbreathes at' nostrils\nCal. The Spirit torments me: oh\nSte. This is some Monster of the Isle, with foure legs;\nwho hath got (as I take it) an Ague: where the diuell\nshould he learne our language? I will giue him some reliefe\nif it be but for that: if I can recouer him, and keepe\nhim tame, and get to Naples with him, he's a Present\nfor any Emperour that euer trod on Neates-leather\nCal. Doe not torment me 'prethee: I'le bring my\nwood home faster\nSte. He's in his fit now; and doe's not talke after the\nwisest; hee shall taste of my Bottle: if hee haue neuer\ndrunke wine afore, it will goe neere to remoue his Fit:\nif I can recouer him, and keepe him tame, I will not take\ntoo much for him; hee shall pay for him that hath him,\nand that soundly\nCal. Thou do'st me yet but little hurt; thou wilt anon,\nI know it by thy trembling: Now Prosper workes\nvpon thee\nSte. Come on your wayes: open your mouth: here\nis that which will giue language to you Cat; open your\nmouth; this will shake your shaking, I can tell you, and\nthat soundly: you cannot tell who's your friend; open\nyour chaps againe\nTri. I should know that voyce:\nIt should be,\nBut hee is dround; and these are diuels; O defend\nme\nSte. Foure legges and two voyces; a most delicate\nMonster: his forward voyce now is to speake well of\nhis friend; his backward voice, is to vtter foule speeches,\nand to detract: if all the wine in my bottle will recouer\nhim, I will helpe his Ague: Come: Amen, I will\npoure some in thy other mouth\nTri. Stephano\nSte. Doth thy other mouth call me? Mercy, mercy:\nThis is a diuell, and no Monster: I will leaue him, I\nhaue no long Spoone\nTri. Stephano: if thou beest Stephano, touch me, and\nspeake to me: for I am Trinculo; be not afeard, thy\ngood friend Trinculo\nSte. If thou bee'st Trinculo: come forth: I'le pull\nthee by the lesser legges: if any be Trinculo's legges,\nthese are they: Thou art very Trinculo indeede: how\ncam'st thou to be the siege of this Moone-calfe? Can\nhe vent Trinculo's?\nTri. I tooke him to be kil'd with a thunder-strok; but\nart thou not dround Stephano: I hope now thou art\nnot dround: Is the Storme ouer-blowne? I hid mee\nvnder the dead Moone-Calfes Gaberdine, for feare of\nthe Storme: And art thou liuing Stephano? O Stephano,\ntwo Neapolitanes scap'd?\nSte. 'Prethee doe not turne me about, my stomacke\nis not constant\nCal. These be fine things, and if they be not sprights:\nthat's a braue God, and beares Celestiall liquor: I will\nkneele to him\nSte. How did'st thou scape?\nHow cam'st thou hither?\nSweare by this Bottle how thou cam'st hither: I escap'd\nvpon a But of Sacke, which the Saylors heaued o'reboord,\nby this Bottle which I made of the barke of\na Tree, with mine owne hands, since I was cast a'shore\nCal. I'le sweare vpon that Bottle, to be thy true subiect,\nfor the liquor is not earthly\nSt. Heere: sweare then how thou escap'dst\nTri. Swom ashore (man) like a Ducke: I can swim\nlike a Ducke i'le be sworne\nSte. Here, kisse the Booke.\nThough thou canst swim like a Ducke, thou art made\nlike a Goose\nTri. O Stephano, ha'st any more of this?\nSte. The whole But (man) my Cellar is in a rocke\nby th' sea-side, where my Wine is hid:\nHow now Moone-Calfe, how do's thine Ague?\nCal. Ha'st thou not dropt from heauen?\nSte. Out o'th Moone I doe assure thee. I was the\nMan ith' Moone, when time was\nCal. I haue seene thee in her: and I doe adore thee:\nMy Mistris shew'd me thee, and thy Dog, and thy Bush\nSte. Come, sweare to that: kisse the Booke: I will\nfurnish it anon with new Contents: Sweare\nTri. By this good light, this is a very shallow Monster:\nI afeard of him? a very weake Monster:\nThe Man ith' Moone?\nA most poore creadulous Monster:\nWell drawne Monster, in good sooth\nCal. Ile shew thee euery fertill ynch o'th Island: and\nI will kisse thy foote: I prethee be my god\nTri. By this light, a most perfidious, and drunken\nMonster, when's god's a sleepe he'll rob his Bottle\nCal. Ile kisse thy foot, Ile sweare my selfe thy Subiect\nSte. Come on then: downe and sweare\nTri. I shall laugh my selfe to death at this puppi-headed\nMonster: a most scuruie Monster: I could finde in\nmy heart to beate him\nSte. Come, kisse\nTri. But that the poore Monster's in drinke:\nAn abhominable Monster\nCal. I'le shew thee the best Springs: I'le plucke thee\nBerries: I'le fish for thee; and get thee wood enough.\nA plague vpon the Tyrant that I serue;\nI'le beare him no more Stickes, but follow thee, thou\nwondrous man\nTri. A most rediculous Monster, to make a wonder of\na poore drunkard\nCal. I 'prethee let me bring thee where Crabs grow;\nand I with my long nayles will digge thee pig-nuts;\nshow thee a Iayes nest, and instruct thee how to snare\nthe nimble Marmazet: I'le bring thee to clustring\nPhilbirts, and sometimes I'le get thee young Scamels\nfrom the Rocke: Wilt thou goe with me?\nSte. I pre'thee now lead the way without any more\ntalking. Trinculo, the King, and all our company else\nbeing dround, wee will inherit here: Here; beare my\nBottle: Fellow Trinculo; we'll fill him by and by againe.\nCaliban Sings drunkenly.\nFarewell Master; farewell, farewell\nTri. A howling Monster: a drunken Monster\nCal. No more dams I'le make for fish,\nNor fetch in firing, at requiring,\nNor scrape trenchering, nor wash dish,\nBan' ban' Cacalyban\nHas a new Master, get a new Man.\nFreedome, high-day, high-day freedome, freedome highday,\nfreedome\nSte. O braue Monster; lead the way.\nExeunt.\nActus Tertius. Scoena Prima.\nEnter Ferdinand (bearing a Log.)\nFer. There be some Sports are painfull; & their labor\nDelight in them set off: Some kindes of basenesse\nAre nobly vndergon; and most poore matters\nPoint to rich ends: this my meane Taske\nWould be as heauy to me, as odious, but\nThe Mistris which I serue, quickens what's dead,\nAnd makes my labours, pleasures: O She is\nTen times more gentle, then her Father's crabbed;\nAnd he's compos'd of harshnesse. I must remoue\nSome thousands of these Logs, and pile them vp,\nVpon a sore iniunction; my sweet Mistris\nWeepes when she sees me worke, & saies, such basenes\nHad neuer like Executor: I forget:\nBut these sweet thoughts, doe euen refresh my labours,\nMost busie lest, when I doe it.\nEnter Miranda | and Prospero.\nMir. Alas, now pray you\nWorke not so hard: I would the lightning had\nBurnt vp those Logs that you are enioynd to pile:\nPray set it downe, and rest you: when this burnes\n'Twill weepe for hauing wearied you: my Father\nIs hard at study; pray now rest your selfe,\nHee's safe for these three houres\nFer. O most deere Mistris\nThe Sun will set before I shall discharge\nWhat I must striue to do\nMir. If you'l sit downe\nIle beare your Logges the while: pray giue me that,\nIle carry it to the pile\nFer. No precious Creature,\nI had rather cracke my sinewes, breake my backe,\nThen you should such dishonor vndergoe,\nWhile I sit lazy by\nMir. It would become me\nAs well as it do's you; and I should do it\nWith much more ease: for my good will is to it,\nAnd yours it is against\nPro. Poore worme thou art infected,\nThis visitation shewes it\nMir. You looke wearily\nFer. No, noble Mistris, 'tis fresh morning with me\nWhen you are by at night: I do beseech you\nCheefely, that I might set it in my prayers,\nWhat is your name?\nMir. Miranda, O my Father,\nI haue broke your hest to say so\nFer. Admir'd Miranda,\nIndeede the top of Admiration, worth\nWhat's deerest to the world: full many a Lady\nI haue ey'd with best regard, and many a time\nTh' harmony of their tongues, hath into bondage\nBrought my too diligent eare: for seuerall vertues\nHaue I lik'd seuerall women, neuer any\nWith so full soule, but some defect in her\nDid quarrell with the noblest grace she ow'd,\nAnd put it to the foile. But you, O you,\nSo perfect, and so peerlesse, are created\nOf euerie Creatures best\nMir. I do not know\nOne of my sexe; no womans face remember,\nSaue from my glasse, mine owne: Nor haue I seene\nMore that I may call men, then you good friend,\nAnd my deere Father: how features are abroad\nI am skillesse of; but by my modestie\n(The iewell in my dower) I would not wish\nAny Companion in the world but you:\nNor can imagination forme a shape\nBesides your selfe, to like of: but I prattle\nSomething too wildely, and my Fathers precepts\nI therein do forget\nFer. I am, in my condition\nA Prince (Miranda) I do thinke a King\n(I would not so) and would no more endure\nThis wodden slauerie, then to suffer\nThe flesh-flie blow my mouth: heare my soule speake.\nThe verie instant that I saw you, did\nMy heart flie to your seruice, there resides\nTo make me slaue to it, and for your sake\nAm I this patient Logge-man\nMir. Do you loue me?\nFer. O heauen; O earth, beare witnes to this sound,\nAnd crowne what I professe with kinde euent\nIf I speake true: if hollowly, inuert\nWhat best is boaded me, to mischiefe: I,\nBeyond all limit of what else i'th world\nDo loue, prize, honor you\nMir. I am a foole\nTo weepe at what I am glad of\nPro. Faire encounter\nOf two most rare affections: heauens raine grace\nOn that which breeds betweene 'em\nFer. Wherefore weepe you?\nMir. At mine vnworthinesse, that dare not offer\nWhat I desire to giue; and much lesse take\nWhat I shall die to want: But this is trifling,\nAnd all the more it seekes to hide it selfe,\nThe bigger bulke it shewes. Hence bashfull cunning,\nAnd prompt me plaine and holy innocence.\nI am your wife, if you will marrie me;\nIf not, Ile die your maid: to be your fellow\nYou may denie me, but Ile be your seruant\nWhether you will or no\nFer. My Mistris (deerest)\nAnd I thus humble euer\nMir. My husband then?\nFer. I, with a heart as willing\nAs bondage ere of freedome: heere's my hand\nMir. And mine, with my heart in't; and now farewel\nTill halfe an houre hence\nFer. A thousand, thousand.\nExeunt.\nPro. So glad of this as they I cannot be,\nWho are surpriz'd with all; but my reioycing\nAt nothing can be more: Ile to my booke,\nFor yet ere supper time, must I performe\nMuch businesse appertaining.\nEnter.\nScoena Secunda.\nEnter Caliban, Stephano, and Trinculo.\nSte. Tell not me, when the But is out we will drinke\nwater, not a drop before; therefore beare vp, & boord\nem' Seruant Monster, drinke to me\nTrin. Seruant Monster? the folly of this Iland, they\nsay there's but fiue vpon this Isle; we are three of them,\nif th' other two be brain'd like vs, the State totters\nSte. Drinke seruant Monster when I bid thee, thy\neies are almost set in thy head\nTrin. Where should they bee set else? hee were a\nbraue Monster indeede if they were set in his taile\nSte. My man-Monster hath drown'd his tongue in\nsacke: for my part the Sea cannot drowne mee, I swam\nere I could recouer the shore, fiue and thirtie Leagues\noff and on, by this light thou shalt bee my Lieutenant\nMonster, or my Standard\nTrin. Your Lieutenant if you list, hee's no standard\nSte. Weel not run Monsieur Monster\nTrin. Nor go neither: but you'l lie like dogs, and yet\nsay nothing neither\nSte. Moone-calfe, speak once in thy life, if thou beest\na good Moone-calfe\nCal. How does thy honour? Let me licke thy shooe:\nIle not serue him, he is not valiant\nTrin. Thou liest most ignorant Monster, I am in case\nto iustle a Constable: why, thou debosh'd Fish thou,\nwas there euer man a Coward, that hath drunk so much\nSacke as I to day? wilt thou tell a monstrous lie, being\nbut halfe a Fish, and halfe a Monster?\nCal. Loe, how he mockes me, wilt thou let him my\nLord?\nTrin. Lord, quoth he? that a Monster should be such\na Naturall?\nCal. Loe, loe againe: bite him to death I prethee\nSte. Trinculo, keepe a good tongue in your head: If\nyou proue a mutineere, the next Tree: the poore Monster's\nmy subiect, and he shall not suffer indignity\nCal. I thanke my noble Lord. Wilt thou be pleas'd\nto hearken once againe to the suite I made to thee?\nSte. Marry will I: kneele, and repeate it,\nI will stand, and so shall Trinculo.\nEnter Ariell inuisible.\nCal. As I told thee before, I am subiect to a Tirant,\nA Sorcerer, that by his cunning hath cheated me\nOf the Island\nAriell. Thou lyest\nCal. Thou lyest, thou iesting Monkey thou:\nI would my valiant Master would destroy thee.\nI do not lye\nSte. Trinculo, if you trouble him any more in's tale,\nBy this hand, I will supplant some of your teeth\nTrin. Why, I said nothing\nSte. Mum then, and no more: proceed\nCal. I say by Sorcery he got this Isle\nFrom me, he got it. If thy Greatnesse will\nReuenge it on him, (for I know thou dar'st)\nBut this Thing dare not\nSte. That's most certaine\nCal. Thou shalt be Lord of it, and Ile serue thee\nSte. How now shall this be compast?\nCanst thou bring me to the party?\nCal. Yea, yea my Lord, Ile yeeld him thee asleepe,\nWhere thou maist knocke a naile into his head\nAriell. Thou liest, thou canst not\nCal. What a py'de Ninnie's this? Thou scuruy patch:\nI do beseech thy Greatnesse giue him blowes,\nAnd take his bottle from him: When that's gone,\nHe shall drinke nought but brine, for Ile not shew him\nWhere the quicke Freshes are\nSte. Trinculo, run into no further danger:\nInterrupt the Monster one word further, and by this\nhand, Ile turne my mercie out o' doores, and make a\nStockfish of thee\nTrin. Why, what did I? I did nothing:\nIle go farther off\nSte. Didst thou not say he lyed?\nAriell. Thou liest\nSte. Do I so? Take thou that,\nAs you like this, giue me the lye another time\nTrin. I did not giue the lie: Out o'your wittes, and\nhearing too?\nA pox o'your bottle, this can Sacke and drinking doo:\nA murren on your Monster, and the diuell take your\nfingers\nCal. Ha, ha, ha\nSte. Now forward with your Tale: prethee stand\nfurther off\nCal. Beate him enough: after a little time\nIle beate him too\nSte. Stand farther: Come proceede\nCal. Why, as I told thee, 'tis a custome with him\nI'th afternoone to sleepe: there thou maist braine him,\nHauing first seiz'd his bookes: Or with a logge\nBatter his skull, or paunch him with a stake,\nOr cut his wezand with thy knife. Remember\nFirst to possesse his Bookes; for without them\nHee's but a Sot, as I am; nor hath not\nOne Spirit to command: they all do hate him\nAs rootedly as I. Burne but his Bookes,\nHe ha's braue Vtensils (for so he calles them)\nWhich when he ha's a house, hee'l decke withall.\nAnd that most deeply to consider, is\nThe beautie of his daughter: he himselfe\nCals her a non-pareill: I neuer saw a woman\nBut onely Sycorax my Dam, and she;\nBut she as farre surpasseth Sycorax,\nAs great'st do's least\nSte. Is it so braue a Lasse?\nCal. I Lord, she will become thy bed, I warrant,\nAnd bring thee forth braue brood\nSte. Monster, I will kill this man: his daughter and\nI will be King and Queene, saue our Graces: and Trinculo\nand thy selfe shall be Viceroyes:\nDost thou like the plot Trinculo?\nTrin. Excellent\nSte. Giue me thy hand, I am sorry I beate thee:\nBut while thou liu'st keepe a good tongue in thy head\nCal. Within this halfe houre will he be asleepe,\nWilt thou destroy him then?\nSte. I on mine honour\nAriell. This will I tell my Master\nCal. Thou mak'st me merry: I am full of pleasure,\nLet vs be iocond. Will you troule the Catch\nYou taught me but whileare?\nSte. At thy request Monster, I will do reason,\nAny reason: Come on Trinculo, let vs sing.\nSings.\nFlout 'em, and cout 'em: and skowt 'em, and flout 'em,\nThought is free\nCal. That's not the tune.\nAriell plaies the tune on a Tabor and Pipe.\nSte. What is this same?\nTrin. This is the tune of our Catch, plaid by the picture\nof No-body\nSte. If thou beest a man, shew thy selfe in thy likenes:\nIf thou beest a diuell, take't as thou list\nTrin. O forgiue me my sinnes\nSte. He that dies payes all debts: I defie thee;\nMercy vpon vs\nCal. Art thou affeard?\nSte. No Monster, not I\nCal. Be not affeard, the Isle is full of noyses,\nSounds, and sweet aires, that giue delight and hurt not:\nSometimes a thousand twangling Instruments\nWill hum about mine eares; and sometime voices,\nThat if I then had wak'd after long sleepe,\nWill make me sleepe againe, and then in dreaming,\nThe clouds methought would open, and shew riches\nReady to drop vpon me, that when I wak'd\nI cri'de to dreame againe\nSte. This will proue a braue kingdome to me,\nWhere I shall haue my Musicke for nothing\nCal. When Prospero is destroy'd\nSte. That shall be by and by:\nI remember the storie\nTrin. The sound is going away,\nLets follow it, and after do our worke\nSte. Leade Monster,\nWee'l follow: I would I could see this Taborer,\nHe layes it on\nTrin. Wilt come?\nIle follow Stephano.\nExeunt.\nScena Tertia.\nEnter Alonso, Sebastian, Anthonio, Gonzallo, Adrian, Francisco,\n&c.\nGon. By'r lakin, I can goe no further, Sir,\nMy old bones akes: here's a maze trod indeede\nThrough fourth-rights, & Meanders: by your patience,\nI needes must rest me\nAl. Old Lord, I cannot blame thee,\nWho, am my selfe attach'd with wearinesse\nTo th' dulling of my spirits: Sit downe, and rest:\nEuen here I will put off my hope, and keepe it\nNo longer for my Flatterer: he is droun'd\nWhom thus we stray to finde, and the Sea mocks\nOur frustrate search on land: well, let him goe\nAnt. I am right glad, that he's so out of hope:\nDoe not for one repulse forgoe the purpose\nThat you resolu'd t' effect\nSeb. The next aduantage will we take throughly\nAnt. Let it be to night,\nFor now they are oppress'd with trauaile, they\nWill not, nor cannot vse such vigilance\nAs when they are fresh.\nSolemne and strange Musicke: and Prosper on the top (inuisible:)\nEnter seuerall strange shapes, bringing in a Banket; and dance\nabout it with\ngentle actions of salutations, and inuiting the King, &c. to eate,\nthey\ndepart.\nSeb. I say to night: no more\nAl. What harmony is this? my good friends, harke\nGon. Maruellous sweet Musicke\nAlo. Giue vs kind keepers, heaue[n]s: what were these?\nSeb. A liuing Drolerie: now I will beleeue\nThat there are Vnicornes: that in Arabia\nThere is one Tree, the Phoenix throne, one Phoenix\nAt this houre reigning there\nAnt. Ile beleeue both:\nAnd what do's else want credit, come to me\nAnd Ile besworne 'tis true: Trauellers nere did lye,\nThough fooles at home condemne 'em\nGon. If in Naples\nI should report this now, would they beleeue me?\nIf I should say I saw such Islands;\n(For certes, these are people of the Island)\nWho though they are of monstrous shape, yet note\nTheir manners are more gentle, kinde, then of\nOur humaine generation you shall finde\nMany, nay almost any\nPro. Honest Lord,\nThou hast said well: for some of you there present;\nAre worse then diuels\nAl. I cannot too much muse\nSuch shapes, such gesture, and such sound expressing\n(Although they want the vse of tongue) a kinde\nOf excellent dumbe discourse\nPro. Praise in departing\nFr. They vanish'd strangely\nSeb. No matter, since\nThey haue left their Viands behinde; for wee haue stomacks.\nWilt please you taste of what is here?\nAlo. Not I\nGon. Faith Sir, you neede not feare: when wee were Boyes\nWho would beleeue that there were Mountayneeres,\nDew-lapt, like Buls, whose throats had hanging at 'em\nWallets of flesh? or that there were such men\nWhose heads stood in their brests? which now we finde\nEach putter out of fiue for one, will bring vs\nGood warrant of\nAl. I will stand to, and feede,\nAlthough my last, no matter, since I feele\nThe best is past: brother: my Lord, the Duke,\nStand too, and doe as we.\nThunder and Lightning. Enter Ariell (like a Harpey) claps his\nwings vpon\nthe Table, and with a quient deuice the Banquet vanishes.\nAr. You are three men of sinne, whom destiny\nThat hath to instrument this lower world,\nAnd what is in't: the neuer surfeited Sea,\nHath caus'd to belch vp you: and on this Island,\nWhere man doth not inhabit, you 'mongst men,\nBeing most vnfit to liue: I haue made you mad;\nAnd euen with such like valour, men hang, and drowne\nTheir proper selues: you fooles, I and my fellowes\nAre ministers of Fate, the Elements\nOf whom your swords are temper'd, may as well\nWound the loud windes, or with bemockt-at-Stabs\nKill the still closing waters, as diminish\nOne dowle that's in my plumbe: My fellow ministers\nAre like-invulnerable: if you could hurt,\nYour swords are now too massie for your strengths,\nAnd will not be vplifted: But remember\n(For that's my businesse to you) that you three\nFrom Millaine did supplant good Prospero,\nExpos'd vnto the Sea (which hath requit it)\nHim, and his innocent childe: for which foule deed,\nThe Powres, delaying (not forgetting) haue\nIncens'd the Seas, and Shores; yea, all the Creatures\nAgainst your peace: Thee of thy Sonne, Alonso\nThey haue bereft; and doe pronounce by me\nLingring perdition (worse then any death\nCan be at once) shall step, by step attend\nYou, and your wayes, whose wraths to guard you from,\nWhich here, in this most desolate Isle, else fals\nVpon your heads, is nothing but hearts-sorrow,\nAnd a cleere life ensuing.\nHe vanishes in Thunder: then (to soft Musicke.) Enter the shapes\nagaine,\nand daunce (with mockes and mowes) and carrying out the Table.\nPro. Brauely the figure of this Harpie, hast thou\nPerform'd (my Ariell) a grace it had deuouring:\nOf my Instruction, hast thou nothing bated\nIn what thou had'st to say: so with good life,\nAnd obseruation strange, my meaner ministers\nTheir seuerall kindes haue done: my high charmes work,\nAnd these (mine enemies) are all knit vp\nIn their distractions: they now are in my powre;\nAnd in these fits, I leaue them, while I visit\nYong Ferdinand (whom they suppose is droun'd)\nAnd his, and mine lou'd darling\nGon. I'th name of something holy, Sir, why stand you\nIn this strange stare?\nAl. O, it is monstrous: monstrous:\nMe thought the billowes spoke, and told me of it,\nThe windes did sing it to me: and the Thunder\n(That deepe and dreadfull Organ-Pipe) pronounc'd\nThe name of Prosper: it did base my Trespasse,\nTherefore my Sonne i'th Ooze is bedded; and\nI'le seeke him deeper then ere plummet sounded,\nAnd with him there lye mudded.\nEnter.\nSeb. But one feend at a time,\nIle fight their Legions ore\nAnt. Ile be thy Second.\nExeunt.\nGon. All three of them are desperate: their great guilt\n(Like poyson giuen to worke a great time after)\nNow gins to bite the spirits: I doe beseech you\n(That are of suppler ioynts) follow them swiftly,\nAnd hinder them from what this extasie\nMay now prouoke them to\nAd. Follow, I pray you.\nExeunt. omnes.\nActus Quartus. Scena Prima.\nEnter Prospero, Ferdinand, and Miranda.\nPro. If I haue too austerely punish'd you,\nYour compensation makes amends, for I\nHaue giuen you here, a third of mine owne life,\nOr that for which I liue: who, once againe\nI tender to thy hand: All thy vexations\nWere but my trials of thy loue, and thou\nHast strangely stood the test: here, afore heauen\nI ratifie this my rich guift: O Ferdinand,\nDoe not smile at me, that I boast her of,\nFor thou shalt finde she will out-strip all praise\nAnd make it halt, behinde her\nFer. I doe beleeue it\nAgainst an Oracle\nPro. Then, as my guest, and thine owne acquisition\nWorthily purchas'd, take my daughter: But\nIf thou do'st breake her Virgin-knot, before\nAll sanctimonious ceremonies may\nWith full and holy right, be ministred,\nNo sweet aspersion shall the heauens let fall\nTo make this contract grow; but barraine hate,\nSower-ey'd disdaine, and discord shall bestrew\nThe vnion of your bed, with weedes so loathly\nThat you shall hate it both: Therefore take heede,\nAs Hymens Lamps shall light you\nFer. As I hope\nFor quiet dayes, faire Issue, and long life,\nWith such loue, as 'tis now the murkiest den,\nThe most opportune place, the strongst suggestion,\nOur worser Genius can, shall neuer melt\nMine honor into lust, to take away\nThe edge of that dayes celebration,\nWhen I shall thinke, or Phoebus Steeds are founderd,\nOr Night kept chain'd below\nPro. Fairely spoke;\nSit then, and talke with her, she is thine owne;\nWhat Ariell; my industrious serua[n]t Ariell.\nEnter Ariell.\nAr. What would my potent master? here I am\nPro. Thou, and thy meaner fellowes, your last seruice\nDid worthily performe: and I must vse you\nIn such another tricke: goe bring the rabble\n(Ore whom I giue thee powre) here, to this place:\nIncite them to quicke motion, for I must\nBestow vpon the eyes of this yong couple\nSome vanity of mine Art: it is my promise,\nAnd they expect it from me\nAr. Presently?\nPro. I: with a twincke\nAr. Before you can say come, and goe,\nAnd breathe twice; and cry, so, so:\nEach one tripping on his Toe,\nWill be here with mop, and mowe.\nDoe you loue me Master? no?\nPro. Dearely, my delicate Ariell: doe not approach\nTill thou do'st heare me call\nAr. Well: I conceiue.\nEnter.\nPro. Looke thou be true: doe not giue dalliance\nToo much the raigne: the strongest oathes, are straw\nTo th' fire ith' blood: be more abstenious,\nOr else good night your vow\nFer. I warrant you, Sir,\nThe white cold virgin Snow, vpon my heart\nAbates the ardour of my Liuer\nPro. Well.\nNow come my Ariell, bring a Corolary,\nRather then want a Spirit; appear, & pertly.\nSoft musick.\nNo tongue: all eyes: be silent.\nEnter Iris.\nIr. Ceres, most bounteous Lady, thy rich Leas\nOf Wheate, Rye, Barley, Fetches, Oates and Pease;\nThy Turphie-Mountaines, where liue nibling Sheepe,\nAnd flat Medes thetchd with Stouer, them to keepe:\nThy bankes with pioned, and twilled brims\nWhich spungie Aprill, at thy hest betrims;\nTo make cold Nymphes chast crownes; & thy broomegroues;\nWhose shadow the dismissed Batchelor loues,\nBeing lasse-lorne: thy pole-clipt vineyard,\nAnd thy Sea-marge stirrile, and rockey-hard,\nWhere thou thy selfe do'st ayre, the Queene o'th Skie,\nWhose watry Arch, and messenger, am I.\nBids thee leaue these, & with her soueraigne grace,\nIuno descends.\nHere on this grasse-plot, in this very place\nTo come, and sport: here Peacocks flye amaine:\nApproach, rich Ceres, her to entertaine.\nEnter Ceres.\nCer. Haile, many-coloured Messenger, that nere\nDo'st disobey the wife of Iupiter:\nWho, with thy saffron wings, vpon my flowres\nDiffusest hony drops, refreshing showres,\nAnd with each end of thy blew bowe do'st crowne\nMy boskie acres, and my vnshrubd downe,\nRich scarph to my proud earth: why hath thy Queene\nSummond me hither, to this short gras'd Greene?\nIr. A contract of true Loue, to celebrate,\nAnd some donation freely to estate\nOn the bles'd Louers\nCer. Tell me heauenly Bowe,\nIf Venus or her Sonne, as thou do'st know,\nDoe now attend the Queene? since they did plot\nThe meanes, that duskie Dis, my daughter got,\nHer, and her blind-Boyes scandald company,\nI haue forsworne\nIr. Of her societie\nBe not afraid: I met her deitie\nCutting the clouds towards Paphos: and her Son\nDoue-drawn with her: here thought they to haue done\nSome wanton charme, vpon this Man and Maide,\nWhose vowes are, that no bed-right shall be paid\nTill Hymens Torch be lighted: but in vaine,\nMarses hot Minion is returnd againe,\nHer waspish headed sonne, has broke his arrowes,\nSwears he will shoote no more, but play with Sparrows,\nAnd be a Boy right out\nCer. Highest Queene of State,\nGreat Iuno comes, I know her by her gate\nIu. How do's my bounteous sister? goe with me\nTo blesse this twaine, that they may prosperous be,\nAnd honourd in their Issue.\nThey sing.\nIu. Honor, riches, marriage, blessing,\nLong continuance, and encreasing,\nHourely ioyes, be still vpon you,\nIuno sings her blessings on you.\nEarths increase, foyzon plentie,\nBarnes, and Garners, neuer empty.\nVines, with clustring bunches growing,\nPlants, with goodly burthen bowing:\nSpring come to you at the farthest,\nIn the very end of Haruest.\nScarcity and want shall shun you,\nCeres blessing so is on you\nFer. This is a most maiesticke vision, and\nHarmonious charmingly: may I be bold\nTo thinke these spirits?\nPro. Spirits, which by mine Art\nI haue from their confines call'd to enact\nMy present fancies\nFer. Let me liue here euer,\nSo rare a wondred Father, and a wise\nMakes this place Paradise\nPro. Sweet now, silence:\nIuno and Ceres whisper seriously,\nThere's something else to doe: hush, and be mute\nOr else our spell is mar'd.\nIuno and Ceres whisper, and send Iris on employment.\nIris. You Nimphs cald Nayades of y windring brooks,\nWith your sedg'd crownes, and euer-harmelesse lookes,\nLeaue your crispe channels, and on this green-Land\nAnswere your summons, Iuno do's command.\nCome temperate Nimphes, and helpe to celebrate\nA Contract of true Loue: be not too late.\nEnter Certaine Nimphes.\nYou Sun-burn'd Sicklemen of August weary,\nCome hether from the furrow, and be merry,\nMake holly day: your Rye-straw hats put on,\nAnd these fresh Nimphes encounter euery one\nIn Country footing.\nEnter certaine Reapers (properly habited:) they ioyne with the\nNimphes,\nin a gracefull dance, towards the end whereof, Prospero starts\nsodainly\nand speakes, after which to a strange hollow and confused noyse,\nthey\nheauily vanish.\nPro. I had forgot that foule conspiracy\nOf the beast Calliban, and his confederates\nAgainst my life: the minute of their plot\nIs almost come: Well done, auoid: no more\nFer. This is strange: your fathers in some passion\nThat workes him strongly\nMir. Neuer till this day\nSaw I him touch'd with anger, so distemper'd\nPro. You doe looke (my son) in a mou'd sort,\nAs if you were dismaid: be cheerefull Sir,\nOur Reuels now are ended: These our actors,\n(As I foretold you) were all Spirits, and\nAre melted into Ayre, into thin Ayre,\nAnd like the baselesse fabricke of this vision\nThe Clowd-capt Towres, the gorgeous Pallaces,\nThe solemne Temples, the great Globe it selfe,\nYea, all which it inherit, shall dissolue,\nAnd like this insubstantiall Pageant faded\nLeaue not a racke behinde: we are such stuffe\nAs dreames are made on; and our little life\nIs rounded with a sleepe: Sir, I am vext,\nBeare with my weakenesse, my old braine is troubled:\nBe not disturb'd with my infirmitie,\nIf you be pleas'd, retire into my Cell,\nAnd there repose, a turne or two, Ile walke\nTo still my beating minde\nFer. Mir. We wish your peace.\nEnter.\nPro. Come with a thought; I thank thee Ariell: come.\nEnter Ariell.\nAr. Thy thoughts I cleaue to, what's thy pleasure?\nPro. Spirit: We must prepare to meet with Caliban\nAr. I my Commander, when I presented Ceres\nI thought to haue told thee of it, but I fear'd\nLeast I might anger thee\nPro. Say again, where didst thou leaue these varlots?\nAr. I told you Sir, they were red-hot with drinking,\nSo full of valour, that they smote the ayre\nFor breathing in their faces: beate the ground\nFor kissing of their feete; yet alwaies bending\nTowards their proiect: then I beate my Tabor,\nAt which like vnback't colts they prickt their eares,\nAduanc'd their eye-lids, lifted vp their noses\nAs they smelt musicke, so I charm'd their eares\nThat Calfe-like, they my lowing follow'd, through\nTooth'd briars, sharpe firzes, pricking gosse, & thorns,\nWhich entred their fraile shins: at last I left them\nI'th' filthy mantled poole beyond your Cell,\nThere dancing vp to th' chins, that the fowle Lake\nOre-stunck their feet\nPro. This was well done (my bird)\nThy shape inuisible retaine thou still:\nThe trumpery in my house, goe bring it hither\nFor stale to catch these theeues\nAr. I go, I goe.\nEnter.\nPro. A Deuill, a borne-Deuill, on whose nature\nNurture can neuer sticke: on whom my paines\nHumanely taken, all, all lost, quite lost,\nAnd, as with age, his body ouglier growes,\nSo his minde cankers: I will plague them all,\nEuen to roaring: Come, hang on them this line.\nEnter Ariell, loaden with glistering apparell, &c. Enter Caliban,\nStephano, and Trinculo, all wet.\nCal. Pray you tread softly, that the blinde Mole may\nnot heare a foot fall: we now are neere his Cell\nSt. Monster, your Fairy, w you say is a harmles Fairy,\nHas done little better then plaid the Iacke with vs\nTrin. Monster, I do smell all horse-pisse, at which\nMy nose is in great indignation\nSte. So is mine. Do you heare Monster: If I should\nTake a displeasure against you: Looke you\nTrin. Thou wert but a lost Monster\nCal. Good my Lord, giue me thy fauour stil,\nBe patient, for the prize Ile bring thee too\nShall hudwinke this mischance: therefore speake softly,\nAll's husht as midnight yet\nTrin. I, but to loose our bottles in the Poole\nSte. There is not onely disgrace and dishonor in that\nMonster, but an infinite losse\nTr. That's more to me then my wetting:\nYet this is your harmlesse Fairy, Monster\nSte. I will fetch off my bottle,\nThough I be o're eares for my labour\nCal. Pre-thee (my King) be quiet. Seest thou heere\nThis is the mouth o'th Cell: no noise, and enter:\nDo that good mischeefe, which may make this Island\nThine owne for euer, and I thy Caliban\nFor aye thy foot-licker\nSte. Giue me thy hand,\nI do begin to haue bloody thoughts\nTrin. O King Stephano, O Peere: O worthy Stephano,\nLooke what a wardrobe heere is for thee\nCal. Let it alone thou foole, it is but trash\nTri. Oh, ho, Monster: wee know what belongs to a\nfrippery, O King Stephano\nSte. Put off that gowne (Trinculo) by this hand Ile\nhaue that gowne\nTri. Thy grace shall haue it\nCal. The dropsie drowne this foole, what doe you meane\nTo doate thus on such luggage? let's alone\nAnd doe the murther first: if he awake,\nFrom toe to crowne hee'l fill our skins with pinches,\nMake vs strange stuffe\nSte. Be you quiet (Monster) Mistris line, is not this\nmy Ierkin? how is the Ierkin vnder the line: now Ierkin\nyou are like to lose your haire, & proue a bald Ierkin\nTrin. Doe, doe; we steale by lyne and leuell, and't\nlike your grace\nSte. I thank thee for that iest; heer's a garment for't:\nWit shall not goe vn-rewarded while I am King of this\nCountry: Steale by line and leuell, is an excellent passe\nof pate: there's another garment for't\nTri. Monster, come put some Lime vpon your fingers,\nand away with the rest\nCal. I will haue none on't: we shall loose our time,\nAnd all be turn'd to Barnacles, or to Apes\nWith foreheads villanous low\nSte. Monster, lay to your fingers: helpe to beare this\naway, where my hogshead of wine is, or Ile turne you\nout of my kingdome: goe to, carry this\nTri. And this\nSte. I, and this.\nA noyse of Hunters heard. Enter diuers Spirits in shape of Dogs\nand\nHounds, hunting them about: Prospero and Ariel setting them on.\nPro. Hey Mountaine, hey\nAri. Siluer: there it goes, Siluer\nPro. Fury, Fury: there Tyrant, there: harke, harke.\nGoe, charge my Goblins that they grinde their ioynts\nWith dry Convultions, shorten vp their sinewes\nWith aged Cramps, & more pinch-spotted make them,\nThen Pard, or Cat o' Mountaine\nAri. Harke, they rore\nPro. Let them be hunted soundly: At this houre\nLies at my mercy all mine enemies:\nShortly shall all my labours end, and thou\nShalt haue the ayre at freedome: for a little\nFollow, and doe me seruice.\nExeunt.\nActus quintus: Scoena Prima.\nEnter Prospero (in his Magicke robes) and Ariel.\nPro. Now do's my Proiect gather to a head:\nMy charmes cracke not: my Spirits obey, and Time\nGoes vpright with his carriage: how's the day?\nAr. On the sixt hower, at which time, my Lord\nYou said our worke should cease\nPro. I did say so,\nWhen first I rais'd the Tempest: say my Spirit,\nHow fares the King, and's followers?\nAr. Confin'd together\nIn the same fashion, as you gaue in charge,\nIust as you left them; all prisoners Sir\nIn the Line-groue which weather-fends your Cell,\nThey cannot boudge till your release: The King,\nHis Brother, and yours, abide all three distracted,\nAnd the remainder mourning ouer them,\nBrim full of sorrow, and dismay: but chiefly\nHim that you term'd Sir, the good old Lord Gonzallo,\nHis teares runs downe his beard like winters drops\nFrom eaues of reeds: your charm so strongly works 'em\nThat if you now beheld them, your affections\nWould become tender\nPro. Dost thou thinke so, Spirit?\nAr. Mine would, Sir, were I humane\nPro. And mine shall.\nHast thou (which art but aire) a touch, a feeling\nOf their afflictions, and shall not my selfe,\nOne of their kinde, that rellish all as sharpely,\nPassion as they, be kindlier mou'd then thou art?\nThogh with their high wrongs I am strook to th' quick,\nYet, with my nobler reason, gainst my furie\nDoe I take part: the rarer Action is\nIn vertue, then in vengeance: they, being penitent,\nThe sole drift of my purpose doth extend\nNot a frowne further: Goe, release them Ariell,\nMy Charmes Ile breake, their sences Ile restore,\nAnd they shall be themselues\nAr. Ile fetch them, Sir.\nEnter.\nPro. Ye Elues of hils, brooks, sta[n]ding lakes & groues,\nAnd ye, that on the sands with printlesse foote\nDoe chase the ebbingNeptune, and doe flie him\nWhen he comes backe: you demy-Puppets, that\nBy Moone-shine doe the greene sowre Ringlets make,\nWhereof the Ewe not bites: and you, whose pastime\nIs to make midnight-Mushrumps, that reioyce\nTo heare the solemne Curfewe, by whose ayde\n(Weake Masters though ye be) I haue bedymn'd\nThe Noone-tide Sun, call'd forth the mutenous windes,\nAnd twixt the greene Sea, and the azur'd vault\nSet roaring warre: To the dread ratling Thunder\nHaue I giuen fire, and rifted Ioues stowt Oke\nWith his owne Bolt: The strong bass'd promontorie\nHaue I made shake, and by the spurs pluckt vp\nThe Pyne, and Cedar. Graues at my command\nHaue wak'd their sleepers, op'd, and let 'em forth\nBy my so potent Art. But this rough Magicke\nI heere abiure: and when I haue requir'd\nSome heauenly Musicke (which euen now I do)\nTo worke mine end vpon their Sences, that\nThis Ayrie-charme is for, I'le breake my staffe,\nBury it certaine fadomes in the earth,\nAnd deeper then did euer Plummet sound\nIle drowne my booke.\nSolemne musicke.\nHeere enters Ariel before: Then Alonso with a franticke gesture,\nattended\nby Gonzalo. Sebastian and Anthonio in like manner attended by\nAdrian and\nFrancisco: They all enter the circle which Prospero had made, and\nthere\nstand charm'd: which Prospero obseruing, speakes.\nA solemne Ayre, and the best comforter,\nTo an vnsetled fancie, Cure thy braines\n(Now vselesse) boile within thy skull: there stand\nFor you are Spell-stopt.\nHoly Gonzallo, Honourable man,\nMine eyes ev'n sociable to the shew of thine\nFall fellowly drops: The charme dissolues apace,\nAnd as the morning steales vpon the night\n(Melting the darkenesse) so their rising sences\nBegin to chace the ignorant fumes that mantle\nTheir cleerer reason. O good Gonzallo\nMy true preseruer, and a loyall Sir,\nTo him thou follow'st; I will pay thy graces\nHome both in word, and deede: Most cruelly\nDid thou Alonso, vse me, and my daughter:\nThy brother was a furtherer in the Act,\nThou art pinch'd for't now Sebastian. Flesh, and bloud,\nYou, brother mine, that entertaine ambition,\nExpelld remorse, and nature, whom, with Sebastian\n(Whose inward pinches therefore are most strong)\nWould heere haue kill'd your King: I do forgiue thee,\nVnnaturall though thou art: Their vnderstanding\nBegins to swell, and the approching tide\nWill shortly fill the reasonable shore\nThat now ly foule, and muddy: not one of them\nThat yet lookes on me, or would know me: Ariell,\nFetch me the Hat, and Rapier in my Cell,\nI will discase me, and my selfe present\nAs I was sometime Millaine: quickly Spirit,\nThou shalt ere long be free.\nAriell sings, and helps to attire him.\nWhere the Bee sucks, there suck I,\nIn a Cowslips bell, I lie,\nThere I cowch when Owles doe crie,\nOn the Batts backe I doe flie\nafter Sommer merrily.\nMerrily, merrily, shall I liue now,\nVnder the blossom that hangs on the Bow\nPro. Why that's my dainty Ariell: I shall misse\nThee, but yet thou shalt haue freedome: so, so, so,\nTo the Kings ship, inuisible as thou art,\nThere shalt thou finde the Marriners asleepe\nVnder the Hatches: the Master and the Boat-swaine\nBeing awake, enforce them to this place;\nAnd presently, I pre'thee\nAr. I drinke the aire before me, and returne\nOr ere your pulse twice beate.\nEnter.\nGon. All torment, trouble, wonder, and amazement\nInhabits heere: some heauenly power guide vs\nOut of this fearefull Country\nPro. Behold Sir King\nThe wronged Duke of Millaine, Prospero:\nFor more assurance that a liuing Prince\nDo's now speake to thee, I embrace thy body,\nAnd to thee, and thy Company, I bid\nA hearty welcome\nAlo. Where thou bee'st he or no,\nOr some inchanted triflle to abuse me,\n(As late I haue beene) I not know: thy Pulse\nBeats as of flesh, and blood: and since I saw thee,\nTh' affliction of my minde amends, with which\nI feare a madnesse held me: this must craue\n(And if this be at all) a most strange story.\nThy Dukedome I resigne, and doe entreat\nThou pardon me my wrongs: But how shold Prospero\nBe liuing, and be heere?\nPro. First, noble Frend,\nLet me embrace thine age, whose honor cannot\nBe measur'd, or confin'd\nGonz. Whether this be,\nOr be not, I'le not sweare\nPro. You doe yet taste\nSome subtleties o'th' Isle, that will nor let you\nBeleeue things certaine: Wellcome, my friends all,\nBut you, my brace of Lords, were I so minded\nI heere could plucke his Highnesse frowne vpon you\nAnd iustifie you Traitors: at this time\nI will tell no tales\nSeb. The Diuell speakes in him:\nPro. No:\nFor you (most wicked Sir) whom to call brother\nWould euen infect my mouth, I do forgiue\nThy rankest fault; all of them: and require\nMy Dukedome of thee, which, perforce I know\nThou must restore\nAlo. If thou beest Prospero\nGiue vs particulars of thy preseruation,\nHow thou hast met vs heere, whom three howres since\nWere wrackt vpon this shore? where I haue lost\n(How sharp the point of this remembrance is)\nMy deere sonne Ferdinand\nPro. I am woe for't, Sir\nAlo. Irreparable is the losse, and patience\nSaies, it is past her cure\nPro. I rather thinke\nYou haue not sought her helpe, of whose soft grace\nFor the like losse, I haue her soueraigne aid,\nAnd rest my selfe content\nAlo. You the like losse?\nPro. As great to me, as late, and supportable\nTo make the deere losse, haue I meanes much weaker\nThen you may call to comfort you; for I\nHaue lost my daughter\nAlo. A daughter?\nOh heauens, that they were liuing both in Naples\nThe King and Queene there, that they were, I wish\nMy selfe were mudded in that oozie bed\nWhere my sonne lies: when did you lose your daughter?\nPro. In this last Tempest. I perceiue these Lords\nAt this encounter doe so much admire,\nThat they deuoure their reason, and scarce thinke\nTheir eies doe offices of Truth: Their words\nAre naturall breath: but howsoeu'r you haue\nBeene iustled from your sences, know for certain\nThat I am Prospero, and that very Duke\nWhich was thrust forth of Millaine, who most strangely\nVpon this shore (where you were wrackt) was landed\nTo be the Lord on't: No more yet of this,\nFor 'tis a Chronicle of day by day,\nNot a relation for a break-fast, nor\nBefitting this first meeting: Welcome, Sir;\nThis Cell's my Court: heere haue I few attendants,\nAnd Subiects none abroad: pray you looke in:\nMy Dukedome since you haue giuen me againe,\nI will requite you with as good a thing,\nAt least bring forth a wonder, to content ye\nAs much, as me my Dukedome.\nHere Prospero discouers Ferdinand and Miranda, playing at\nChesse.\nMir. Sweet Lord, you play me false\nFer. No my dearest loue,\nI would not for the world\nMir. Yes, for a score of Kingdomes, you should wrangle,\nAnd I would call it faire play\nAlo. If this proue\nA vision of the Island, one deere Sonne\nShall I twice loose\nSeb. A most high miracle\nFer. Though the Seas threaten they are mercifull,\nI haue curs'd them without cause\nAlo. Now all the blessings\nOf a glad father, compasse thee about:\nArise, and say how thou cam'st heere\nMir. O wonder!\nHow many goodly creatures are there heere?\nHow beauteous mankinde is? O braue new world\nThat has such people in't\nPro. 'Tis new to thee\nAlo. What is this Maid, with whom thou was't at play?\nYour eld'st acquaintance cannot be three houres:\nIs she the goddesse that hath seuer'd vs,\nAnd brought vs thus together?\nFer. Sir, she is mortall;\nBut by immortall prouidence, she's mine;\nI chose her when I could not aske my Father\nFor his aduise: nor thought I had one: She\nIs daughter to this famous Duke of Millaine,\nOf whom, so often I haue heard renowne,\nBut neuer saw before: of whom I haue\nReceiu'd a second life; and second Father\nThis Lady makes him to me\nAlo. I am hers.\nBut O, how odly will it sound, that I\nMust aske my childe forgiuenesse?\nPro. There Sir stop,\nLet vs not burthen our remembrances, with\nA heauinesse that's gon\nGon. I haue inly wept,\nOr should haue spoke ere this: looke downe you gods\nAnd on this couple drop a blessed crowne;\nFor it is you, that haue chalk'd forth the way\nWhich brought vs hither\nAlo. I say Amen, Gonzallo\nGon. Was Millaine thrust from Millaine, that his Issue\nShould become Kings of Naples? O reioyce\nBeyond a common ioy, and set it downe\nWith gold on lasting Pillers: In one voyage\nDid Claribell her husband finde at Tunis,\nAnd Ferdinand her brother, found a wife,\nWhere he himselfe was lost: Prospero, his Dukedome\nIn a poore Isle: and all of vs, our selues,\nWhen no man was his owne\nAlo. Giue me your hands:\nLet griefe and sorrow still embrace his heart,\nThat doth not wish you ioy\nGon. Be it so, Amen.\nEnter Ariell, with the Master and Boatswaine amazedly following.\nO looke Sir, looke Sir, here is more of vs:\nI prophesi'd, if a Gallowes were on Land\nThis fellow could not drowne: Now blasphemy,\nThat swear'st Grace ore-boord, not an oath on shore,\nHast thou no mouth by land?\nWhat is the newes?\nBot. The best newes is, that we haue safely found\nOur King, and company: The next: our Ship,\nWhich but three glasses since, we gaue out split,\nIs tyte, and yare, and brauely rig'd, as when\nWe first put out to Sea\nAr. Sir, all this seruice\nHaue I done since I went\nPro. My tricksey Spirit\nAlo. These are not naturall euents, they strengthen\nFrom strange, to stranger: say, how came you hither?\nBot. If I did thinke, Sir, I were well awake,\nI'ld striue to tell you: we were dead of sleepe,\nAnd (how we know not) all clapt vnder hatches,\nWhere, but euen now, with strange, and seuerall noyses\nOf roring, shreeking, howling, gingling chaines,\nAnd mo diuersitie of sounds, all horrible.\nWe were awak'd: straight way, at liberty;\nWhere we, in all our trim, freshly beheld\nOur royall, good, and gallant Ship: our Master\nCapring to eye her: on a trice, so please you,\nEuen in a dreame, were we diuided from them,\nAnd were brought moaping hither\nAr. Was't well done?\nPro. Brauely (my diligence) thou shalt be free\nAlo. This is as strange a Maze, as ere men trod,\nAnd there is in this businesse, more then nature\nWas euer conduct of: some Oracle\nMust rectifie our knowledge\nPro. Sir, my Leige,\nDoe not infest your minde, with beating on\nThe strangenesse of this businesse, at pickt leisure\n(Which shall be shortly single) I'le resolue you,\n(Which to you shall seeme probable) of euery\nThese happend accidents: till when, be cheerefull\nAnd thinke of each thing well: Come hither Spirit,\nSet Caliban, and his companions free:\nVntye the Spell: How fares my gracious Sir?\nThere are yet missing of your Companie\nSome few odde Lads, that you remember not.\nEnter Ariell, driuing in Caliban, Stephano, and Trinculo in their\nstolne\nApparell.\nSte. Euery man shift for all the rest, and let\nNo man take care for himselfe; for all is\nBut fortune: Coragio Bully-Monster Coragio\nTri. If these be true spies which I weare in my head,\nhere's a goodly sight\nCal. O Setebos, these be braue Spirits indeede:\nHow fine my Master is? I am afraid\nHe will chastise me\nSeb. Ha, ha:\nWhat things are these, my Lord Anthonio?\nWill money buy em?\nAnt. Very like: one of them\nIs a plaine Fish, and no doubt marketable\nPro. Marke but the badges of these men, my Lords,\nThen say if they be true: This mishapen knaue;\nHis Mother was a Witch, and one so strong\nThat could controle the Moone; make flowes, and ebs,\nAnd deale in her command, without her power:\nThese three haue robd me, and this demy-diuell;\n(For he's a bastard one) had plotted with them\nTo take my life: two of these Fellowes, you\nMust know, and owne, this Thing of darkenesse, I\nAcknowledge mine\nCal. I shall be pincht to death\nAlo. Is not this Stephano, my drunken Butler?\nSeb. He is drunke now;\nWhere had he wine?\nAlo. And Trinculo is reeling ripe: where should they\nFinde this grand Liquor that hath gilded 'em?\nHow cam'st thou in this pickle?\nTri. I haue bin in such a pickle since I saw you last,\nThat I feare me will neuer out of my bones:\nI shall not feare fly-blowing\nSeb. Why how now Stephano?\nSte. O touch me not, I am not Stephano, but a Cramp\nPro. You'ld be King o'the Isle, Sirha?\nSte. I should haue bin a sore one then\nAlo. This is a strange thing as ere I look'd on\nPro. He is as disproportion'd in his Manners\nAs in his shape: Goe Sirha, to my Cell,\nTake with you your Companions: as you looke\nTo haue my pardon, trim it handsomely\nCal. I that I will: and Ile be wise hereafter,\nAnd seeke for grace: what a thrice double Asse\nWas I to take this drunkard for a god?\nAnd worship this dull foole?\nPro. Goe to, away\nAlo. Hence, and bestow your luggage where you found it\nSeb. Or stole it rather\nPro. Sir, I inuite your Highnesse, and your traine\nTo my poore Cell: where you shall take your rest\nFor this one night, which part of it, Ile waste\nWith such discourse, as I not doubt, shall make it\nGoe quicke away: The story of my life,\nAnd the particular accidents, gon by\nSince I came to this Isle: And in the morne\nI'le bring you to your ship, and so to Naples,\nWhere I haue hope to see the nuptiall\nOf these our deere-belou'd, solemnized,\nAnd thence retire me to my Millaine, where\nEuery third thought shall be my graue\nAlo. I long\nTo heare the story of your life; which must\nTake the eare strangely\nPro. I'le deliuer all,\nAnd promise you calme Seas, auspicious gales,\nAnd saile, so expeditious, that shall catch\nYour Royall fleete farre off: My Ariel; chicke\nThat is thy charge: Then to the Elements\nBe free, and fare thou well: please you draw neere.\nExeunt. omnes.\nEPILOGVE, spoken by Prospero.\nNow my Charmes are all ore-throwne,\nAnd what strength I haue's mine owne.\nWhich is most faint: now 'tis true\nI must be heere confinde by you,\nOr sent to Naples, Let me not\nSince I haue my Dukedome got,\nAnd pardon'd the deceiuer, dwell\nIn this bare Island, by your Spell,\nBut release me from my bands\nWith the helpe of your good hands:\nGentle breath of yours, my Sailes\nMust fill, or else my proiect failes,\nWhich was to please: Now I want\nSpirits to enforce: Art to inchant,\nAnd my ending is despaire,\nVnlesse I be relieu'd by praier\nWhich pierces so, that it assaults\nMercy it selfe, and frees all faults.\nAs you from crimes would pardon'd be,\nLet your Indulgence set me free.\nEnter.\nThe-, an vn-inhabited Island\nNames of the Actors.\nAlonso, K[ing]. of Naples:\nSebastian his Brother.\nProspero, the right Duke of Millaine.\nAnthonio his brother, the vsurping Duke of Millaine.\nFerdinand, Son to the King of Naples.\nGonzalo, an honest old Councellor.\nAdrian, & Francisco, Lords.\nCaliban, a saluage and deformed slaue.\nTrinculo, a Iester.\nStephano, a drunken Butler.\nMaster of a Ship.\nBoate-Swaine.\nMarriners.\nMiranda, daughter to Prospero.\nAriell, an ayrie spirit.\nIris\nCeres\nIuno\nNymphes\nReapers\nSpirits.\nFINIS. THE TEMPEST.","title":"The Tempest","type":"page"}