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With colors fairer painted their foul ends.
In few, they hurried us aboard a bark,
Bore us some leagues to sea; where they prepard
A rotten carcass of a boat, not rigg'd,
Nor tackle, sail, nor mast; the very rats
Instinctively have quit it. There they hoist us,
To cry to th' sea that roar'd to us; to sigh
To th' winds, whose pity, sighing back again,
Did us but loving wrong.
Alack, what trouble
Was I then to you!
O, a cherubin
Thou wast, that did preserve me.
Thou did'st smile, Infused with a fortitude from heaven, When I have deck'd the sea with drops full salt, Under my burthen groan’d; which rais'd in me An undergoing stomach, to bear up Against what should ensue. Miranda.
How came we ashore?
Prospero. By Providence divine.
Some food we had, and some fresh water, that
A noble Neapolitan, Gonzalo,
Out of his charity (who being then appointed
Master of this design), did give us, with
Rich garments, linens, stuffs, and necessaries,
Which since have steaded much. So, of his gentleness,
Knowing I lov'd my books, he furnish'd me,
From mine own library, with volumes that
I prize above my dukedom.
Would I might
But ever see that man !
Now I arise :-
Sit still, and hear the last of our sea-sorrow.
Here in this island we arriv'd ; and here
Have I, thy schoolmaster, made thee more profit
Than other princess can, that have more time
For vainer hours, and tutors not so .careful.
Miranda. Heavens thank you for't! And now, I pray you,
(For still 'tis beating in my mind,) your reason
For raising this sea-storm?
Know thus far forth:
By accident most strange, bountiful Fortune
(Now my dear lady) hath mine enemies
Brought to this shore; and by my prescience
I find my zenith doth depend upon
A most auspicious star, whose influence
If now I court not, but omit, my fortunes
Will ever after droop. Here cease more questions:
Thou art inclin'd to sleep ; 'tis a good dulness,
And give it way: I know thou canst not choose.—
[Miranda sleeps Come away, servant, come! I am ready now : Approach, my Ariel, come!
Ariel. All hail, great master! grave sir, hail! I come
To answer thy best pleasure; be't to fly,
To swim, to dive into the fire, to ride
On the curl'd clouds : to thy strong bidding task
Ariel and all his quality.
Hast thou, spirit,
Perform’d to point the tempest that I bade thee?
Ariel. To every
I boarded the king's ship; now on the beak,
Now in the waist, the deck, in every cabin,
I fam’d amazement: sometime I'd divide,
And burn in many places; on the topmast,
The yards, and bowsprit, would I flame distinctly,
Then meet and join. Jove's lightnings, the precursors
O'th' dreadful thunder-claps, more momentary
And sight-outrunning were not : the fire and cracks
Of sulphurous roaring the most mighty Neptune
Seem to besiege, and make his bold waves tremble,
Yea, his dread trident shake.
My brave spirit !
Who was so firm, so constant, that this coil
Would not infect his reason?
Not a soul
But felt a fever of the mad, and play'd
Some tricks of desperation. All but mariners
Plung'd in the foaming brine, and quit the vessel,
Then all afire with me: the king's son, Ferdinand,
With hair up-staring, then like reeds, not hair,-
Was the first man that leap'd ; cried, “Hell is empty,
And all the devils are here."
Why, that's my spirit !
But was not this nigh shore?
Close by, my master.
Prospero. But are they, Ariel, safe?
Not a hair perish'd;
On their sustaining garments not a blemish,
But fresher than before : and, as thou bad’st me,
In troops I have dispers’d them 'bout the isle.
The king's son have I landed by himself;
Whom I left cooling of the air with sighs
In an odd angle of the isle, and sitting,
His arms in this sad knot.
Of the king's ship
The mariners, say how thou hast dispos'd,
And all the rest o'th' fleet.
Safely in harbour
Is the king's ship; in the deep nook, where once
Thou call’dst me up at midnight to fetch dew
From the still-vex'd Bermoothes, there she's hid ;
The mariners all under hatches stow'd ;
Who, with a charm join'd to their suffer'd labour,
I have left asleep: and for the rest o’ th’ fleet,
Which I dispers'd, they all have met again,
And are upon the Mediterranean flote,
Bound sadly home for Naples,
Supposing that they saw the king's ship wrack’d,
Ind his great person perish.
Ariel, thy charge
Exactly is perform'd; but there's more work.
What is the time o'th' day?
Past the mid season.
Prospero. At least two glasses. The time 'twixt six and
Must by us both be spent most preciously, .
Ariel. Is there more toil? Since thou dost give me pains,
Let me remember thee what thou hast promis’d,
Which is not yet perform'd me.
How now? moody?
What is't thou canst demand ?
Prospero. Before the time be out? no more !
I prithee, Remember I have done thee worthy service; Told thee no lies, made no mistakings, serv'd Without or grudge or grumblings. Thou didst promise To bate me a full year. Prospero.
Dost thou forget From what a torment I did free thee? Ariel.
No. Prospero. Thou dost; and think'st it much to tread the Of the salt deep,
fooze To run upon the sharp wind of the north, To do me business in the veins o' th' earth When it is bak'd with frost.
I do not, sir.
Prospero. Thou liest, malignant thing! Hast thou forgot
The foul witch Sycorax, who with age and envy
Was grown into a hoop? hast thou forgot her?
Ariel. No, sir.
Prospero. Thou hast. Where was she born ? speak;
Ariel. Sir, in Argier.
Prospero. O, was she so? I must
Once in a month recount what thou hast been,
Which thou forget'st. This damn'd witch Sycorax,
For mischiefs manifold, and sorceries terrible
To enter human hearing, from Argier,
Thou know'st, was banish’d: for one thing she did,
They would not take her life. Is not this true?
Ariel. Ay, sir.
Prospero. This blue-eyed hag was hither brought with child,
And here was left by th' sailors. Thou, my slave,
As thou report'st thyself, wast then her servant;
And, for thou wast a spirit too delicate
To act her earthy and abhorr'd commands,
Refusing her grand hests, she did confine thee,
By help of her more potent ministers,
And in her most unmitigable rage,
Into a cloven pine ; within which rift
Imprison'd, thou didst painfully remain
A dozen years; within which space she died,
And left thee there, where thou didst vent thy groans
As fast as mill-wheels strike. Then was this island-
Save for the son that she did litter here,
A freckled whelp, hag-born—not honour'd with
A human shape.
Yes, Caliban her son.
Prospero. Dull thing, I say so; he, that Caliban,
Whom now I keep in service. Thou best know'st
What torment I did find thee in ; thy groans