The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch,
But that the sea, mounting to the welkin's cheek,
Dashes the fire out. O! I have suffer'd

With those that I saw suffer: a brave vessel,
Who had no doubt some noble creature in her,
Dash'd all to pieces. O! the cry did knock
Against my very heart. Poor souls, they perish'd.
Had I been any god of power, I would

Have sunk the sea within the earth,

or e'er It should the good ship so have swallow'd, and The fraughting souls within her.

I have done nothing but in care of thee

(Of thee, my dear one! thee, my daughter!) who Art ignorant of what thou art, nought knowing

Of whence I am; nor that I am more better

Than Prospero, master of a full poor cell,
And thy no greater father.

Mira.

More to know

'T is time

Did never meddle with my thoughts.

Pro.

I should inform thee farther. Lend thy hand,
And pluck my magic garment from me.

So:

[Lays down his Mantle.

Lie there my art. Wipe thou thine eyes; have comfort.

The direful spectacle of the wreck, which touch'd

The very virtue of compassion in thee,
I have with such provision in mine art
So safely order'd, that there is no soul
No, not so much perdition as an hair,
Betid to any creature in the vessel

Which thou heard'st cry, which thou saw'st sink. Sit down;
For thou must now know farther.

Mira.

You have often

Begun to tell me what I am; but stopp'd,
And left me to a bootless inquisition,
Concluding, "Stay, not yet."

Pro..

The hour 's now come,

The very minute bids thee ope thine ear;

Obey, and be attentive. Canst thou remember
A time before we came unto this cell?

I do not think thou canst, for then thou wast not
Out three years old.

Pro. By what? by any other house, or person? Of any thing the image tell me, that

Hath kept with thy remembrance.

'Tis far off;

Mira.
And rather like a dream, than an assurance
That my remembrance warrants. Had I not
Four or five women once, that tended me?

But how is it,

Pro. Thou hadst, and more, Miranda.
That this lives in thy mind? What seest thou else
In the dark backward and abysm of time?

If thou remember'st aught, ere thou cam'st here,
How thou cam'st here, thou may'st.

Mira.

But that I do not.

Pro. Twelve year since, Miranda, twelve year since, Thy father was the duke of Milan, and

A prince of power.

Mira.

Sir, are not you my father?

Pro. Thy mother was a piece of virtue, and

She said

thou wast my daughter; and thy father

Was duke of Milan, and his only heir

And princess no worse issued.

Mira.

O, the heavens!

What foul play had we, that we came from thence?
Or blessed was 't, we did?

Pro.

Both, both, my girl:

By foul play, as thou say'st, were we heav'd thence; But blessedly holp hither.

Mira.

O! my heart bleeds
To think o' the teen that I have turn'd you to,

Which is from my remembrance. Please you, farther.
Pro. My brother, and thy uncle, call'd Antonio,
I pray thee, mark me, that a brother should
Be so perfidious! —he whom, next thyself,
Of all the world I lov'd, and to him put
The manage of my state; as, at that time,
Through all the signiories it was the first,
(And Prospero the prime duke, being so reputed
In dignity) and, for the liberal arts,

Without a parallel: those being all my study,
The government I cast upon my brother,

And to my state grew stranger, being transported,
And rapt in secret studies. Thy false uncle
Dost thou attend me?

Mira.

Sir, most heedfully.

Pro. Being once perfected how to grant suits, How to deny them, whom t' advance, and whom

To trash for over-topping, new created

The creatures that were mine, I say, or chang'd them,
Or else new form'd them: having both the key

Of officer and office, set all hearts i' the state
To what tune pleas'd his ear; that now he was
The ivy, which had hid my princely trunk,
And suck'd my verdure out on 't.

Mira. O good Sir! I do.
Pro.

Thou attend'st not.

I pray thee, mark me.

I thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated
To closeness, and the bettering of my mind
With that, which but by being so retir'd
O'er-priz'd all popular rate, in my false brother
Awak'd an evil nature: and my trust,
Like a good parent, did beget of him
A falsehood, in its contrary as great

As my trust was; which had, indeed, no limit,
A confidence sans bound. He being thus lorded,
Not only with what my revenue yielded,
But what my power might else exact,
Who having, unto truth, by telling of it,
Made such a sinner of his memory,

To credit his own lie,

- like one,

he did believe

He was indeed the duke; out o' the substitution,
And executing th' outward face of royalty,
With all prerogative: - hence his ambition
Growing, Dost thou hear?

Mira.

Your tale, Sir, would cure deafness.

Pro. To have no screen between this part he play'd,
And him he play'd it for, he needs will be
Absolute Milan. Me, poor man!— my library
Was dukedom large enough: of temporal royalties
He thinks me now incapable; confederates
(So dry he was for sway) with the king of Naples,
To give him annual tribute, do him homage,
Subject his coronet to his crown, and bend
The dukedom, yet unbow'd, (alas, poor Milan!)
To most ignoble stooping.

Mira.

O the heavens!

Pro. Mark his condition, and th' event; then tell me If this might be a brother.

To me inveterate, hearkens my brother's suit;
Which was, that he in lieu o' the premises,
Of homage, and I know not how much tribute,
Should presently extirpate me and mine
Out of the dukedom, and confer fair Milan,
With all the honours, on my brother: wheron,
A treacherous army levied, one midnight,

Fated to the purpose, did Antonio open

The gates of Milan; and, i' the dead of darkness,
The ministers for the purpose hurried thence

Me, and thy crying self.

• Mira.

Alack, for pity!

I, not rememb'ring how I cried out then,
Will cry it o'er again: it is a hint,

That wrings mine eyes to 't.

Pro.

Hear a little farther,

And then I'll bring thee to the present business
Which now's upon's; without the which this story
Were most impertinent.

Mira.

That hour destroy us?

Pro.

Wherefore did they not

Well demanded, wench:

My tale provokes that question. Dear, they durst not,

So dear the love my people bore me, nor set

A mark so bloody on the business; but

With colours fairer painted their foul ends.
In few, they hurried us aboard a bark,

Bore us some leagues to sea, where they prepar'd
A rotten carcass of a butt, not rigg'd,

Nor tackle, sail, nor mast; the very rats
Instinctively have quit it: there they hoist us,
To cry to the sea that roar'd to us; to sigh
To the winds, whose pity, sighing back again,
Did us but loving wrong.

Mira.

Was I then to you!

Pro.

Alack! what trouble

O! a cherubim

Thou wast, that did preserve me. Thou didst smile,

Infused with a fortitude from heaven,

When I have deck'd the sea with drops full salt,

Under my burden groan'd; which rais'd in me

An undergoing stomach, to bear up

Against what should ensue.

Mira.

How came we ashore?