THE TEMPEST
by William Shakespeare
Contents
ACT I
Scene I. On a ship at sea; a tempestuous noise of thunder and lightning
heard.
Scene II. The Island. Before the cell of Prospero.
ACT II
Scene I. Another part of the island.
Scene II. Another part of the island.
ACT III
Scene I. Before Prospero’s cell.
Scene II. Another part of the island.
Scene III. Another part of the island.
ACT IV
Scene I. Before Prospero’s cell.
ACT V
Scene I. Before the cell of Prospero.
Epilogue.
Dramatis Personæ
ALONSO, King of Naples
SEBASTIAN, his brother
PROSPERO, the right Duke of Milan
ANTONIO, his brother, the usurping Duke of Milan
FERDINAND, Son to the King of Naples
GONZALO, an honest old counsellor
ADRIAN, Lord
FRANCISCO, Lord
CALIBAN, a savage and deformed slave
TRINCULO, a jester
STEPHANO, a drunken butler
MASTER OF A SHIP
BOATSWAIN
MARINERS
MIRANDA, daughter to Prospero
ARIEL, an airy Spirit
IRIS, presented by Spirits
CERES, presented by Spirits
JUNO, presented by Spirits
NYMPHS, presented by Spirits
REAPERS, presented by Spirits
Other Spirits attending on Prospero
SCENE: The sea, with a Ship; afterwards an Island.
ACT I
SCENE I. On a ship at sea; a tempestuous noise of thunder and lightning
heard.
Enter a Shipmaster and a Boatswain severally.
MASTER.
Boatswain!
BOATSWAIN.
Here, master: what cheer?
MASTER.
Good! Speak to the mariners: fall to ’t yarely, or we run ourselves
aground: bestir, bestir.
[_Exit._]
Enter Mariners.
BOATSWAIN.
Heigh, my hearts! cheerly, cheerly, my hearts! yare, yare! Take in the
topsail. Tend to th’ master’s whistle. Blow till thou burst thy wind,
if room enough.
Enter Alonso, Sebastian, Antonio, Ferdinand, Gonzalo and others.
ALONSO.
Good boatswain, have care. Where’s the master?
Play the men.
BOATSWAIN.
I pray now, keep below.
ANTONIO.
Where is the master, boson?
BOATSWAIN.
Do you not hear him? You mar our labour: keep your cabins: you do
assist the storm.
GONZALO.
Nay, good, be patient.
BOATSWAIN.
When the sea is. Hence! What cares these roarers for the name of king?
To cabin! silence! Trouble us not.
GONZALO.
Good, yet remember whom thou hast aboard.
BOATSWAIN.
None that I more love than myself. You are a counsellor: if you can
command these elements to silence, and work the peace of the present,
we will not hand a rope more. Use your authority: if you cannot, give
thanks you have lived so long, and make yourself ready in your cabin
for the mischance of the hour, if it so hap.—Cheerly, good hearts!—Out
of our way, I say.
[_Exit._]
GONZALO.
I have great comfort from this fellow. Methinks he hath no drowning
mark upon him. His complexion is perfect gallows. Stand fast, good
Fate, to his hanging! Make the rope of his destiny our cable, for our
own doth little advantage! If he be not born to be hang’d, our case is
miserable.
[_Exeunt._]
Re-enter Boatswain.
BOATSWAIN.
Down with the topmast! yare! lower, lower! Bring her to try wi’ th’
maincourse.
[_A cry within._]
A plague upon this howling! They are louder than the weather or our
office.
Enter Sebastian, Antonio and Gonzalo.
Yet again! What do you here? Shall we give o’er, and drown? Have you a
mind to sink?
SEBASTIAN.
A pox o’ your throat, you bawling, blasphemous, incharitable dog!
BOATSWAIN.
Work you, then.
ANTONIO.
Hang, cur, hang, you whoreson, insolent noisemaker! We are less afraid
to be drowned than thou art.
GONZALO.
I’ll warrant him for drowning, though the ship were no stronger than a
nutshell, and as leaky as an unstanched wench.
BOATSWAIN.
Lay her a-hold, a-hold! Set her two courses: off to sea again: lay her
off.
Enter Mariners, wet.
MARINERS.
All lost! to prayers, to prayers! all lost!
[_Exeunt._]
BOATSWAIN.
What, must our mouths be cold?
GONZALO.
The King and Prince at prayers! Let’s assist them,
For our case is as theirs.
SEBASTIAN.
I am out of patience.
ANTONIO.
We are merely cheated of our lives by drunkards.
This wide-chapp’d rascal—would thou might’st lie drowning
The washing of ten tides!
GONZALO.
He’ll be hang’d yet,
Though every drop of water swear against it,
And gape at wid’st to glut him.
_A confused noise within: _“Mercy on us!”—
“We split, we split!”—“Farewell, my wife and children!”—
“Farewell, brother!”—“We split, we split, we split!”
ANTONIO.
Let’s all sink wi’ th’ King.
[_Exit._]
SEBASTIAN.
Let’s take leave of him.
[_Exit._]
GONZALO.
Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren
ground. Long heath, brown furze, anything. The wills above be done! but
I would fain die a dry death.
[_Exit._]
SCENE II. The Island. Before the cell of Prospero.
Enter Prospero and Miranda.
MIRANDA.
If by your art, my dearest father, you have
Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them.
The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch,
But that the sea, mounting to th’ welkin’s cheek,
Dashes the fire out. O! I have suffered
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 ere
It should the good ship so have swallow’d and
The fraughting souls within her.
PROSPERO.
Be collected:
No more amazement: tell your piteous heart
There’s no harm done.
MIRANDA.
O, woe the day!
PROSPERO.
No harm.
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.
MIRANDA.
More to know
Did never meddle with my thoughts.
PROSPERO.
’Tis time
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 wrack, which touch’d
The very virtue of compassion in thee,
I have with such provision in mine art
So safely ordered 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.
MIRANDA.
You have often
Begun to tell me what I am, but stopp’d,
And left me to a bootless inquisition,
Concluding “Stay; not yet.”
PROSPERO.
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.
MIRANDA.
Certainly, sir, I can.
PROSPERO.
By what? By any other house, or person?
Of anything the image, tell me, that
Hath kept with thy remembrance.
MIRANDA.
’Tis far off,
And rather like a dream than an assurance
That my remembrance warrants. Had I not
Four or five women once that tended me?
PROSPERO.
Thou hadst, and more, Miranda. But how is it
That this lives in thy mind? What seest thou else
In the dark backward and abysm of time?
If thou rememb’rest aught ere thou cam’st here,
How thou cam’st here, thou mayst.
MIRANDA.
But that I do not.
PROSPERO.
Twelve year since, Miranda, twelve year since,
Thy father was the Duke of Milan, and
A prince of power.
MIRANDA.
Sir, are not you my father?
PROSPERO.
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.
MIRANDA.
O, the heavens!
What foul play had we that we came from thence?
Or blessed was’t we did?
PROSPERO.
Both, both, my girl.
By foul play, as thou say’st, were we heav’d thence;
But blessedly holp hither.
MIRANDA.
O, my heart bleeds
To think o’ th’ teen that I have turn’d you to,
Which is from my remembrance. Please you, farther.
PROSPERO.
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 signories 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?
MIRANDA.
Sir, most heedfully.
PROSPERO.
Being once perfected how to grant suits,
How to deny them, who t’ advance, and who
To trash for over-topping, new created
The creatures that were mine, I say, or chang’d ’em,
Or else new form’d ’em: having both the key
Of officer and office, set all hearts i’ th’ 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. Thou attend’st not.
MIRANDA.
O, good sir! I do.
PROSPERO.
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, like one
Who having into truth, by telling of it,
Made such a sinner of his memory,
To credit his own lie, 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?
MIRANDA.
Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.
PROSPERO.
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, wi’ th’ 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.
MIRANDA.
O the heavens!
PROSPERO.
Mark his condition, and the event; then tell me
If this might be a brother.
MIRANDA.
I should sin
To think but nobly of my grandmother:
Good wombs have borne bad sons.
PROSPERO.
Now the condition.
This King of Naples, being an enemy
To me inveterate, hearkens my brother’s suit;
Which was, that he, in lieu o’ th’ 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: whereon,
A treacherous army levied, one midnight
Fated to th’ purpose, did Antonio open
The gates of Milan; and, i’ th’ dead of darkness,
The ministers for th’ purpose hurried thence
Me and thy crying self.
MIRANDA.
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.
PROSPERO.
Hear a little further,
And then I’ll bring thee to the present business
Which now’s upon us; without the which this story
Were most impertinent.
MIRANDA.
Wherefore did they not
That hour destroy us?
PROSPERO.
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 prepared
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 th’ sea, that roar’d to us; to sigh
To th’ winds, whose pity, sighing back again,
Did us but loving wrong.
MIRANDA.
Alack, what trouble
Was I then to you!
PROSPERO.
O, a cherubin
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.
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.
MIRANDA.
Would I might
But ever see that man!
PROSPERO.
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 princes can, that have more time
For vainer hours, and tutors not so careful.
MIRANDA.
Heavens thank you for ’t! And now, I pray you, sir,
For still ’tis beating in my mind, your reason
For raising this sea-storm?
PROSPERO.
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!
Enter Ariel.
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.
PROSPERO.
Hast thou, spirit,
Perform’d to point the tempest that I bade thee?
ARIEL.
To every article.
I boarded the King’s ship; now on the beak,
Now in the waist, the deck, in every cabin,
I flam’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 lightning, 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.
PROSPERO.
My brave spirit!
Who was so firm, so constant, that this coil
Would not infect his reason?
ARIEL.
Not a soul
But felt a fever of the mad, and play’d
Some tricks of desperation. All but mariners
Plunged 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 leapt; cried “Hell is empty,
And all the devils are here.”
PROSPERO.
Why, that’s my spirit!
But was not this nigh shore?
ARIEL.
Close by, my master.
PROSPERO.
But are they, Ariel, safe?
ARIEL.
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.
PROSPERO.
Of the King’s ship
The mariners, say how thou hast dispos’d,
And all the rest o’ th’ fleet?
ARIEL.
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 stowed;
Who, with a charm join’d to their suff’red 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,
And his great person perish.
PROSPERO.
Ariel, thy charge
Exactly is perform’d; but there’s more work.
What is the time o’ th’ day?
ARIEL.
Past the mid season.
PROSPERO.
At least two glasses. The time ’twixt six and now
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.
PROSPERO.
How now! moody?
What is’t thou canst demand?
ARIEL.
My liberty.
PROSPERO.
Before the time be out? No more!
ARIEL.
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 ooze
Of the salt deep,
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.
ARIEL.
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; tell me.
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-ey’d 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 freckl’d whelp, hag-born—not honour’d with
A human shape.
ARIEL.
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
Did make wolves howl, and penetrate the breasts
Of ever-angry bears: it was a torment
To lay upon the damn’d, which Sycorax
Could not again undo; it was mine art,
When I arriv’d and heard thee, that made gape
The pine, and let thee out.
ARIEL.
I thank thee, master.
PROSPERO.
If thou more murmur’st, I will rend an oak
And peg thee in his knotty entrails till
Thou hast howl’d away twelve winters.
ARIEL.
Pardon, master:
I will be correspondent to command,
And do my spriting gently.
PROSPERO.
Do so; and after two days
I will discharge thee.
ARIEL.
That’s my noble master!
What shall I do? Say what? What shall I do?
PROSPERO.
Go make thyself like a nymph o’ th’ sea. Be subject
To no sight but thine and mine; invisible
To every eyeball else. Go, take this shape,
And hither come in ’t. Go, hence with diligence!
[_Exit Ariel._]
Awake, dear heart, awake! thou hast slept well;
Awake!
MIRANDA.
[_Waking._] The strangeness of your story put
Heaviness in me.
PROSPERO.
Shake it off. Come on;
We’ll visit Caliban my slave, who never
Yields us kind answer.
MIRANDA.
’Tis a villain, sir,
I do not love to look on.
PROSPERO.
But as ’tis,
We cannot miss him: he does make our fire,
Fetch in our wood; and serves in offices
That profit us. What ho! slave! Caliban!
Thou earth, thou! Speak.
CALIBAN.
[_Within._] There’s wood enough within.
PROSPERO.
Come forth, I say; there’s other business for thee.
Come, thou tortoise! when?
Re-enter Ariel like a water-nymph.
Fine apparition! My quaint Ariel,
Hark in thine ear.
ARIEL.
My lord, it shall be done.
[_Exit._]
PROSPERO.
Thou poisonous slave, got by the devil himself
Upon thy wicked dam, come forth!
Enter Caliban.
CALIBAN.
As wicked dew as e’er my mother brush’d
With raven’s feather from unwholesome fen
Drop on you both! A south-west blow on ye,
And blister you all o’er!
PROSPERO.
For this, be sure, tonight thou shalt have cramps,
Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up; urchins
Shall forth at vast of night that they may work
All exercise on thee. Thou shalt be pinch’d
As thick as honeycomb, each pinch more stinging
Than bees that made them.
CALIBAN.
I must eat my dinner.
This island’s mine, by Sycorax my mother,
Which thou tak’st from me. When thou cam’st first,
Thou strok’st me and made much of me; wouldst give me
Water with berries in ’t; and teach me how
To name the bigger light, and how the less,
That burn by day and night: and then I lov’d thee,
And show’d thee all the qualities o’ th’ isle,
The fresh springs, brine-pits, barren place, and fertile.
Curs’d be I that did so! All the charms
Of Sycorax, toads, beetles, bats, light on you!
For I am all the subjects that you have,
Which first was mine own King; and here you sty me
In this hard rock, whiles you do keep from me
The rest o’ th’ island.
PROSPERO.
Thou most lying slave,
Whom stripes may move, not kindness! I have us’d thee,
Filth as thou art, with human care, and lodg’d thee
In mine own cell, till thou didst seek to violate
The honour of my child.
CALIBAN.
Oh ho! Oh ho! Would ’t had been done!
Thou didst prevent me; I had peopled else
This isle with Calibans.
PROSPERO.
Abhorred slave,
Which any print of goodness wilt not take,
Being capable of all ill! I pitied thee,
Took pains to make thee speak, taught thee each hour
One thing or other: when thou didst not, savage,
Know thine own meaning, but wouldst gabble like
A thing most brutish, I endow’d thy purposes
With words that made them known. But thy vile race,
Though thou didst learn, had that in ’t which good natures
Could not abide to be with; therefore wast thou
Deservedly confin’d into this rock,
Who hadst deserv’d more than a prison.
CALIBAN.
You taught me language, and my profit on ’t
Is, I know how to curse. The red plague rid you,
For learning me your language!
PROSPERO.
Hag-seed, hence!
Fetch us in fuel; and be quick, thou ’rt best,
To answer other business. Shrug’st thou, malice?
If thou neglect’st, or dost unwillingly
What I command, I’ll rack thee with old cramps,
Fill all thy bones with aches, make thee roar,
That beasts shall tremble at thy din.
CALIBAN.
No, pray thee.
[_Aside._] I must obey. His art is of such power,
It would control my dam’s god, Setebos,
And make a vassal of him.
PROSPERO.
So, slave, hence!
[_Exit Caliban._]
Re-enter Ariel, playing and singing; Ferdinand following.
ARIEL’S SONG.
_Come unto these yellow sands,
And then take hands:
Curtsied when you have, and kiss’d
The wild waves whist.
Foot it featly here and there,
And sweet sprites bear
The burden. Hark, hark!_
Burden dispersedly. _Bow-wow.
The watch dogs bark._
[Burden dispersedly.] _Bow-wow.
Hark, hark! I hear
The strain of strutting chanticleer
Cry cock-a-diddle-dow._
FERDINAND.
Where should this music be? i’ th’ air or th’ earth?
It sounds no more; and sure it waits upon
Some god o’ th’ island. Sitting on a bank,
Weeping again the King my father’s wrack,
This music crept by me upon the waters,
Allaying both their fury and my passion
With its sweet air: thence I have follow’d it,
Or it hath drawn me rather,—but ’tis gone.
No, it begins again.
ARIEL.
[_Sings._]
_Full fathom five thy father lies.
Of his bones are coral made.
Those are pearls that were his eyes.
Nothing of him that doth fade
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:_
Burden: _Ding-dong.
Hark! now I hear them: ding-dong, bell._
FERDINAND.
The ditty does remember my drown’d father.
This is no mortal business, nor no sound
That the earth owes:—I hear it now above me.
PROSPERO.
The fringed curtains of thine eye advance,
And say what thou seest yond.
MIRANDA.
What is’t? a spirit?
Lord, how it looks about! Believe me, sir,
It carries a brave form. But ’tis a spirit.
PROSPERO.
No, wench; it eats and sleeps and hath such senses
As we have, such. This gallant which thou seest
Was in the wrack; and, but he’s something stain’d
With grief,—that’s beauty’s canker,—thou mightst call him
A goodly person: he hath lost his fellows
And strays about to find ’em.
MIRANDA.
I might call him
A thing divine; for nothing natural
I ever saw so noble.
PROSPERO.
[_Aside._] It goes on, I see,
As my soul prompts it. Spirit, fine spirit! I’ll free thee
Within two days for this.
FERDINAND.
Most sure, the goddess
On whom these airs attend! Vouchsafe, my prayer
May know if you remain upon this island;
And that you will some good instruction give
How I may bear me here: my prime request,
Which I do last pronounce, is, O you wonder!
If you be maid or no?
MIRANDA.
No wonder, sir;
But certainly a maid.
FERDINAND.
My language! Heavens!
I am the best of them that speak this speech,
Were I but where ’tis spoken.
PROSPERO.
How! the best?
What wert thou, if the King of Naples heard thee?
FERDINAND.
A single thing, as I am now, that wonders
To hear thee speak of Naples. He does hear me;
And that he does I weep: myself am Naples,
Who with mine eyes, never since at ebb, beheld
The King my father wrack’d.
MIRANDA.
Alack, for mercy!
FERDINAND.
Yes, faith, and all his lords, the Duke of Milan,
And his brave son being twain.
PROSPERO.
[_Aside._] The Duke of Milan
And his more braver daughter could control thee,
If now ’twere fit to do’t. At the first sight
They have changed eyes. Delicate Ariel,
I’ll set thee free for this. [_To Ferdinand._] A word, good sir.
I fear you have done yourself some wrong: a word.
MIRANDA.
Why speaks my father so ungently? This
Is the third man that e’er I saw; the first
That e’er I sigh’d for. Pity move my father
To be inclin’d my way!
FERDINAND.
O! if a virgin,
And your affection not gone forth, I’ll make you
The Queen of Naples.
PROSPERO.
Soft, sir; one word more.
[_Aside._] They are both in either’s powers. But this swift business
I must uneasy make, lest too light winning
Make the prize light. [_To Ferdinand._] One word more. I charge thee
That thou attend me. Thou dost here usurp
The name thou ow’st not; and hast put thyself
Upon this island as a spy, to win it
From me, the lord on ’t.
FERDINAND.
No, as I am a man.
MIRANDA.
There’s nothing ill can dwell in such a temple:
If the ill spirit have so fair a house,
Good things will strive to dwell with ’t.
PROSPERO.
[_To Ferdinand._] Follow me.—
[_To Miranda._] Speak not you for him; he’s a traitor.
[_To Ferdinand._] Come;
I’ll manacle thy neck and feet together:
Sea-water shalt thou drink; thy food shall be
The fresh-brook mussels, wither’d roots, and husks
Wherein the acorn cradled. Follow.
FERDINAND.
No;
I will resist such entertainment till
Mine enemy has more power.
[_He draws, and is charmed from moving._]
MIRANDA.
O dear father!
Make not too rash a trial of him, for
He’s gentle, and not fearful.
PROSPERO.
What! I say,
My foot my tutor? Put thy sword up, traitor;
Who mak’st a show, but dar’st not strike, thy conscience
Is so possess’d with guilt: come from thy ward,
For I can here disarm thee with this stick
And make thy weapon drop.
MIRANDA.
Beseech you, father!
PROSPERO.
Hence! Hang not on my garments.
MIRANDA.
Sir, have pity;
I’ll be his surety.
PROSPERO.
Silence! One word more
Shall make me chide thee, if not hate thee. What!
An advocate for an impostor? hush!
Thou think’st there is no more such shapes as he,
Having seen but him and Caliban: foolish wench!
To th’ most of men this is a Caliban,
And they to him are angels.
MIRANDA.
My affections
Are then most humble; I have no ambition
To see a goodlier man.
PROSPERO.
[_To Ferdinand._] Come on; obey:
Thy nerves are in their infancy again,
And have no vigour in them.
FERDINAND.
So they are:
My spirits, as in a dream, are all bound up.
My father’s loss, the weakness which I feel,
The wrack of all my friends, nor this man’s threats,
To whom I am subdued, are but light to me,
Might I but through my prison once a day
Behold this maid: all corners else o’ th’ earth
Let liberty make use of; space enough
Have I in such a prison.
PROSPERO.
[_Aside._] It works. [_To Ferdinand._] Come on.
Thou hast done well, fine Ariel! [_To Ferdinand._] Follow me.
[_To Ariel._] Hark what thou else shalt do me.
MIRANDA.
Be of comfort;
My father’s of a better nature, sir,
Than he appears by speech: this is unwonted
Which now came from him.
PROSPERO.
Thou shalt be as free
As mountain winds; but then exactly do
All points of my command.
ARIEL.
To th’ syllable.
PROSPERO.
[_To Ferdinand._] Come, follow. Speak not for him.
[_Exeunt._]
ACT II
SCENE I. Another part of the island.
Enter Alonso, Sebastian, Antonio, Gonzalo, Adrian, Francisco and
others.
GONZALO.
Beseech you, sir, be merry; you have cause,
So have we all, of joy; for our escape
Is much beyond our loss. Our hint of woe
Is common; every day, some sailor’s wife,
The masters of some merchant and the merchant,
Have just our theme of woe; but for the miracle,
I mean our preservation, few in millions
Can speak like us: then wisely, good sir, weigh
Our sorrow with our comfort.
ALONSO.
Prithee, peace.
SEBASTIAN.
He receives comfort like cold porridge.
ANTONIO.
The visitor will not give him o’er so.
SEBASTIAN.
Look, he’s winding up the watch of his wit; by and by it will strike.
GONZALO.
Sir,—
SEBASTIAN.
One: tell.
GONZALO.
When every grief is entertain’d that’s offer’d,
Comes to the entertainer—
SEBASTIAN.
A dollar.
GONZALO.
Dolour comes to him, indeed: you have spoken truer than you purposed.
SEBASTIAN.
You have taken it wiselier than I meant you should.
GONZALO.
Therefore, my lord,—
ANTONIO.
Fie, what a spendthrift is he of his tongue!
ALONSO.
I prithee, spare.
GONZALO.
Well, I have done: but yet—
SEBASTIAN.
He will be talking.
ANTONIO.
Which, of he or Adrian, for a good wager, first begins to crow?
SEBASTIAN.
The old cock.
ANTONIO.
The cockerel.
SEBASTIAN.
Done. The wager?
ANTONIO.
A laughter.
SEBASTIAN.
A match!
ADRIAN.
Though this island seem to be desert,—
ANTONIO.
Ha, ha, ha!
SEBASTIAN.
So. You’re paid.
ADRIAN.
Uninhabitable, and almost inaccessible,—
SEBASTIAN.
Yet—
ADRIAN.
Yet—
ANTONIO.
He could not miss ’t.
ADRIAN.
It must needs be of subtle, tender, and delicate temperance.
ANTONIO.
Temperance was a delicate wench.
SEBASTIAN.
Ay, and a subtle; as he most learnedly delivered.
ADRIAN.
The air breathes upon us here most sweetly.
SEBASTIAN.
As if it had lungs, and rotten ones.
ANTONIO.
Or, as ’twere perfum’d by a fen.
GONZALO.
Here is everything advantageous to life.
ANTONIO.
True; save means to live.
SEBASTIAN.
Of that there’s none, or little.
GONZALO.
How lush and lusty the grass looks! how green!
ANTONIO.
The ground indeed is tawny.
SEBASTIAN.
With an eye of green in’t.
ANTONIO.
He misses not much.
SEBASTIAN.
No; he doth but mistake the truth totally.
GONZALO.
But the rarity of it is,—which is indeed almost beyond credit,—
SEBASTIAN.
As many vouch’d rarities are.
GONZALO.
That our garments, being, as they were, drenched in the sea, hold
notwithstanding their freshness and glosses, being rather new-dyed than
stained with salt water.
ANTONIO.
If but one of his pockets could speak, would it not say he lies?
SEBASTIAN.
Ay, or very falsely pocket up his report.
GONZALO.
Methinks our garments are now as fresh as when we put them on first in
Afric, at the marriage of the King’s fair daughter Claribel to the King
of Tunis.
SEBASTIAN.
’Twas a sweet marriage, and we prosper well in our return.
ADRIAN.
Tunis was never graced before with such a paragon to their Queen.
GONZALO.
Not since widow Dido’s time.
ANTONIO.
Widow! a pox o’ that! How came that widow in? Widow Dido!
SEBASTIAN.
What if he had said, widower Aeneas too?
Good Lord, how you take it!
ADRIAN.
Widow Dido said you? You make me study of that; she was of Carthage,
not of Tunis.
GONZALO.
This Tunis, sir, was Carthage.
ADRIAN.
Carthage?
GONZALO.
I assure you, Carthage.
ANTONIO.
His word is more than the miraculous harp.
SEBASTIAN.
He hath rais’d the wall, and houses too.
ANTONIO.
What impossible matter will he make easy next?
SEBASTIAN.
I think he will carry this island home in his pocket, and give it his
son for an apple.
ANTONIO.
And, sowing the kernels of it in the sea, bring forth more islands.
ALONSO.
Ay.
ANTONIO.
Why, in good time.
GONZALO.
[_To Alonso._] Sir, we were talking that our garments seem now as fresh
as when we were at Tunis at the marriage of your daughter, who is now
Queen.
ANTONIO.
And the rarest that e’er came there.
SEBASTIAN.
Bate, I beseech you, widow Dido.
ANTONIO.
O! widow Dido; ay, widow Dido.
GONZALO.
Is not, sir, my doublet as fresh as the first day I wore it? I mean, in
a sort.
ANTONIO.
That sort was well fish’d for.
GONZALO.
When I wore it at your daughter’s marriage?
ALONSO.
You cram these words into mine ears against
The stomach of my sense. Would I had never
Married my daughter there! for, coming thence,
My son is lost; and, in my rate, she too,
Who is so far from Italy removed,
I ne’er again shall see her. O thou mine heir
Of Naples and of Milan, what strange fish
Hath made his meal on thee?
FRANCISCO.
Sir, he may live:
I saw him beat the surges under him,
And ride upon their backs. He trod the water,
Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted
The surge most swoln that met him. His bold head
’Bove the contentious waves he kept, and oared
Himself with his good arms in lusty stroke
To th’ shore, that o’er his wave-worn basis bowed,
As stooping to relieve him. I not doubt
He came alive to land.
ALONSO.
No, no, he’s gone.
SEBASTIAN.
Sir, you may thank yourself for this great loss,
That would not bless our Europe with your daughter,
But rather lose her to an African;
Where she, at least, is banish’d from your eye,
Who hath cause to wet the grief on ’t.
ALONSO.
Prithee, peace.
SEBASTIAN.
You were kneel’d to, and importun’d otherwise
By all of us; and the fair soul herself
Weigh’d between loathness and obedience at
Which end o’ th’ beam should bow. We have lost your son,
I fear, for ever: Milan and Naples have
More widows in them of this business’ making,
Than we bring men to comfort them.
The fault’s your own.
ALONSO.
So is the dear’st o’ th’ loss.
GONZALO.
My lord Sebastian,
The truth you speak doth lack some gentleness
And time to speak it in. You rub the sore,
When you should bring the plaster.
SEBASTIAN.
Very well.
ANTONIO.
And most chirurgeonly.
GONZALO.
It is foul weather in us all, good sir,
When you are cloudy.
SEBASTIAN.
Foul weather?
ANTONIO.
Very foul.
GONZALO.
Had I plantation of this isle, my lord,—
ANTONIO.
He’d sow ’t with nettle-seed.
SEBASTIAN.
Or docks, or mallows.
GONZALO.
And were the King on’t, what would I do?
SEBASTIAN.
’Scape being drunk for want of wine.
GONZALO.
I’ th’ commonwealth I would by contraries
Execute all things; for no kind of traffic
Would I admit; no name of magistrate;
Letters should not be known; riches, poverty,
And use of service, none; contract, succession,
Bourn, bound of land, tilth, vineyard, none;
No use of metal, corn, or wine, or oil;
No occupation; all men idle, all;
And women too, but innocent and pure;
No sovereignty,—
SEBASTIAN.
Yet he would be King on’t.
ANTONIO.
The latter end of his commonwealth forgets the beginning.
GONZALO.
All things in common nature should produce
Without sweat or endeavour; treason, felony,
Sword, pike, knife, gun, or need of any engine,
Would I not have; but nature should bring forth,
Of it own kind, all foison, all abundance,
To feed my innocent people.
SEBASTIAN.
No marrying ’mong his subjects?
ANTONIO.
None, man; all idle; whores and knaves.
GONZALO.
I would with such perfection govern, sir,
T’ excel the Golden Age.
SEBASTIAN.
Save his Majesty!
ANTONIO.
Long live Gonzalo!
GONZALO.
And,—do you mark me, sir?
ALONSO.
Prithee, no more: thou dost talk nothing to me.
GONZALO.
I do well believe your highness; and did it to minister occasion to
these gentlemen, who are of such sensible and nimble lungs that they
always use to laugh at nothing.
ANTONIO.
’Twas you we laughed at.
GONZALO.
Who in this kind of merry fooling am nothing to you. So you may
continue, and laugh at nothing still.
ANTONIO.
What a blow was there given!
SEBASTIAN.
An it had not fallen flat-long.
GONZALO.
You are gentlemen of brave mettle. You would lift the moon out of her
sphere, if she would continue in it five weeks without changing.
Enter Ariel, invisible, playing solemn music.
SEBASTIAN.
We would so, and then go a-bat-fowling.
ANTONIO.
Nay, good my lord, be not angry.
GONZALO.
No, I warrant you; I will not adventure my discretion so weakly. Will
you laugh me asleep, for I am very heavy?
ANTONIO.
Go sleep, and hear us.
[_All sleep but Alonso, Sebastian and Antonio._]
ALONSO.
What, all so soon asleep! I wish mine eyes
Would, with themselves, shut up my thoughts: I find
They are inclin’d to do so.
SEBASTIAN.
Please you, sir,
Do not omit the heavy offer of it:
It seldom visits sorrow; when it doth,
It is a comforter.
ANTONIO.
We two, my lord,
Will guard your person while you take your rest,
And watch your safety.
ALONSO.
Thank you. Wondrous heavy!
[_Alonso sleeps. Exit Ariel._]
SEBASTIAN.
What a strange drowsiness possesses them!
ANTONIO.
It is the quality o’ th’ climate.
SEBASTIAN.
Why
Doth it not then our eyelids sink? I find not
Myself dispos’d to sleep.
ANTONIO.
Nor I. My spirits are nimble.
They fell together all, as by consent;
They dropp’d, as by a thunder-stroke. What might,
Worthy Sebastian? O, what might?—No more.
And yet methinks I see it in thy face,
What thou shouldst be. Th’ occasion speaks thee; and
My strong imagination sees a crown
Dropping upon thy head.
SEBASTIAN.
What, art thou waking?
ANTONIO.
Do you not hear me speak?
SEBASTIAN.
I do; and surely
It is a sleepy language, and thou speak’st
Out of thy sleep. What is it thou didst say?
This is a strange repose, to be asleep
With eyes wide open; standing, speaking, moving,
And yet so fast asleep.
ANTONIO.
Noble Sebastian,
Thou let’st thy fortune sleep—die rather; wink’st
Whiles thou art waking.
SEBASTIAN.
Thou dost snore distinctly:
There’s meaning in thy snores.
ANTONIO.
I am more serious than my custom; you
Must be so too, if heed me; which to do
Trebles thee o’er.
SEBASTIAN.
Well, I am standing water.
ANTONIO.
I’ll teach you how to flow.
SEBASTIAN.
Do so: to ebb,
Hereditary sloth instructs me.
ANTONIO.
O,
If you but knew how you the purpose cherish
Whiles thus you mock it! how, in stripping it,
You more invest it! Ebbing men indeed,
Most often, do so near the bottom run
By their own fear or sloth.
SEBASTIAN.
Prithee, say on:
The setting of thine eye and cheek proclaim
A matter from thee, and a birth, indeed
Which throes thee much to yield.
ANTONIO.
Thus, sir:
Although this lord of weak remembrance, this
Who shall be of as little memory
When he is earth’d, hath here almost persuaded,—
For he’s a spirit of persuasion, only
Professes to persuade,—the King his son’s alive,
’Tis as impossible that he’s undrown’d
As he that sleeps here swims.
SEBASTIAN.
I have no hope
That he’s undrown’d.
ANTONIO.
O, out of that “no hope”
What great hope have you! No hope that way is
Another way so high a hope, that even
Ambition cannot pierce a wink beyond,
But doubts discovery there. Will you grant with me
That Ferdinand is drown’d?
SEBASTIAN.
He’s gone.
ANTONIO.
Then tell me,
Who’s the next heir of Naples?
SEBASTIAN.
Claribel.
ANTONIO.
She that is Queen of Tunis; she that dwells
Ten leagues beyond man’s life; she that from Naples
Can have no note, unless the sun were post—
The Man i’ th’ Moon’s too slow—till newborn chins
Be rough and razorable; she that from whom
We all were sea-swallow’d, though some cast again,
And by that destiny, to perform an act
Whereof what’s past is prologue, what to come
In yours and my discharge.
SEBASTIAN.
What stuff is this! How say you?
’Tis true, my brother’s daughter’s Queen of Tunis;
So is she heir of Naples; ’twixt which regions
There is some space.
ANTONIO.
A space whose ev’ry cubit
Seems to cry out “How shall that Claribel
Measure us back to Naples? Keep in Tunis,
And let Sebastian wake.” Say this were death
That now hath seiz’d them; why, they were no worse
Than now they are. There be that can rule Naples
As well as he that sleeps; lords that can prate
As amply and unnecessarily
As this Gonzalo. I myself could make
A chough of as deep chat. O, that you bore
The mind that I do! What a sleep were this
For your advancement! Do you understand me?
SEBASTIAN.
Methinks I do.
ANTONIO.
And how does your content
Tender your own good fortune?
SEBASTIAN.
I remember
You did supplant your brother Prospero.
ANTONIO.
True.
And look how well my garments sit upon me;
Much feater than before; my brother’s servants
Were then my fellows; now they are my men.
SEBASTIAN.
But, for your conscience.
ANTONIO.
Ay, sir; where lies that? If ’twere a kibe,
’Twould put me to my slipper: but I feel not
This deity in my bosom: twenty consciences
That stand ’twixt me and Milan, candied be they
And melt ere they molest! Here lies your brother,
No better than the earth he lies upon,
If he were that which now he’s like, that’s dead;
Whom I, with this obedient steel, three inches of it,
Can lay to bed for ever; whiles you, doing thus,
To the perpetual wink for aye might put
This ancient morsel, this Sir Prudence, who
Should not upbraid our course. For all the rest,
They’ll take suggestion as a cat laps milk.
They’ll tell the clock to any business that
We say befits the hour.
SEBASTIAN.
Thy case, dear friend,
Shall be my precedent: as thou got’st Milan,
I’ll come by Naples. Draw thy sword: one stroke
Shall free thee from the tribute which thou payest,
And I the King shall love thee.
ANTONIO.
Draw together,
And when I rear my hand, do you the like,
To fall it on Gonzalo.
SEBASTIAN.
O, but one word.
[_They converse apart._]
Music. Re-enter Ariel, invisible.
ARIEL.
My master through his art foresees the danger
That you, his friend, are in; and sends me forth—
For else his project dies—to keep them living.
[_Sings in Gonzalo’s ear._]
_While you here do snoring lie,
Open-ey’d conspiracy
His time doth take.
If of life you keep a care,
Shake off slumber, and beware.
Awake! awake!_
ANTONIO.
Then let us both be sudden.
GONZALO.
Now, good angels
Preserve the King!
[_They wake._]
ALONSO.
Why, how now! Ho, awake! Why are you drawn?
Wherefore this ghastly looking?
GONZALO.
What’s the matter?
SEBASTIAN.
Whiles we stood here securing your repose,
Even now, we heard a hollow burst of bellowing
Like bulls, or rather lions; did ’t not wake you?
It struck mine ear most terribly.
ALONSO.
I heard nothing.
ANTONIO.
O! ’twas a din to fright a monster’s ear,
To make an earthquake. Sure, it was the roar
Of a whole herd of lions.
ALONSO.
Heard you this, Gonzalo?
GONZALO.
Upon mine honour, sir, I heard a humming,
And that a strange one too, which did awake me.
I shak’d you, sir, and cried; as mine eyes open’d,
I saw their weapons drawn:—there was a noise,
That’s verily. ’Tis best we stand upon our guard,
Or that we quit this place: let’s draw our weapons.
ALONSO.
Lead off this ground, and let’s make further search
For my poor son.
GONZALO.
Heavens keep him from these beasts!
For he is, sure, i’ th’ island.
ALONSO.
Lead away.
[_Exit with the others._]
ARIEL.
Prospero my lord shall know what I have done:
So, King, go safely on to seek thy son.
[_Exit._]
SCENE II. Another part of the island.
Enter Caliban with a burden of wood. A noise of thunder heard.
CALIBAN.
All the infections that the sun sucks up
From bogs, fens, flats, on Prosper fall, and make him
By inch-meal a disease! His spirits hear me,
And yet I needs must curse. But they’ll nor pinch,
Fright me with urchin-shows, pitch me i’ the mire,
Nor lead me, like a firebrand, in the dark
Out of my way, unless he bid ’em; but
For every trifle are they set upon me,
Sometime like apes that mow and chatter at me,
And after bite me; then like hedgehogs which
Lie tumbling in my barefoot way, and mount
Their pricks at my footfall; sometime am I
All wound with adders, who with cloven tongues
Do hiss me into madness.
Enter Trinculo.
Lo, now, lo!
Here comes a spirit of his, and to torment me
For bringing wood in slowly. I’ll fall flat;
Perchance he will not mind me.
TRINCULO.
Here’s neither bush nor shrub to bear off any weather at all, and
another storm brewing; I hear it sing i’ th’ wind. Yond same black
cloud, yond huge one, looks like a foul bombard that would shed his
liquor. If it should thunder as it did before, I know not where to hide
my head: yond same cloud cannot choose but fall by pailfuls. What have
we here? a man or a fish? dead or alive? A fish: he smells like a fish;
a very ancient and fish-like smell; a kind of not of the newest
Poor-John. A strange fish! Were I in England now, as once I was, and
had but this fish painted, not a holiday fool there but would give a
piece of silver: there would this monster make a man; any strange beast
there makes a man. When they will not give a doit to relieve a lame
beggar, they will lay out ten to see a dead Indian. Legg’d like a man,
and his fins like arms! Warm, o’ my troth! I do now let loose my
opinion, hold it no longer: this is no fish, but an islander, that hath
lately suffered by thunderbolt. [_Thunder._] Alas, the storm is come
again! My best way is to creep under his gaberdine; there is no other
shelter hereabout: misery acquaints a man with strange bed-fellows. I
will here shroud till the dregs of the storm be past.
Enter Stephano singing; a bottle in his hand.
STEPHANO.
_I shall no more to sea, to sea,
Here shall I die ashore—_
This is a very scurvy tune to sing at a man’s funeral.
Well, here’s my comfort.
[_Drinks._]
_The master, the swabber, the boatswain, and I,
The gunner, and his mate,
Lov’d Mall, Meg, and Marian, and Margery,
But none of us car’d for Kate:
For she had a tongue with a tang,
Would cry to a sailor “Go hang!”
She lov’d not the savour of tar nor of pitch,
Yet a tailor might scratch her where’er she did itch.
Then to sea, boys, and let her go hang._
This is a scurvy tune too: but here’s my comfort.
[_Drinks._]
CALIBAN.
Do not torment me: O!
STEPHANO.
What’s the matter? Have we devils here? Do you put tricks upon ’s with
savages and men of Ind? Ha? I have not scap’d drowning, to be afeard
now of your four legs; for it hath been said, As proper a man as ever
went on four legs cannot make him give ground; and it shall be said so
again, while Stephano breathes at’ nostrils.
CALIBAN.
The spirit torments me: O!
STEPHANO.
This is some monster of the isle with four legs, who hath got, as I
take it, an ague. Where the devil should he learn our language? I will
give him some relief, if it be but for that. If I can recover him and
keep him tame, and get to Naples with him, he’s a present for any
emperor that ever trod on neat’s-leather.
CALIBAN.
Do not torment me, prithee; I’ll bring my wood home faster.
STEPHANO.
He’s in his fit now, and does not talk after the wisest. He shall taste
of my bottle: if he have never drunk wine afore, it will go near to
remove his fit. If I can recover him, and keep him tame, I will not
take too much for him. He shall pay for him that hath him, and that
soundly.
CALIBAN.
Thou dost me yet but little hurt; thou wilt anon,
I know it by thy trembling: now Prosper works upon thee.
STEPHANO.
Come on your ways. Open your mouth; here is that which will give
language to you, cat. Open your mouth. This will shake your shaking, I
can tell you, and that soundly. [_gives Caliban a drink_] You cannot
tell who’s your friend: open your chaps again.
TRINCULO.
I should know that voice: it should be—but he is drowned; and these are
devils. O, defend me!
STEPHANO.
Four legs and two voices; a most delicate monster! His forward voice
now is to speak well of his friend; his backward voice is to utter foul
speeches and to detract. If all the wine in my bottle will recover him,
I will help his ague. Come. Amen! I will pour some in thy other mouth.
TRINCULO.
Stephano!
STEPHANO.
Doth thy other mouth call me? Mercy! mercy!
This is a devil, and no monster: I will leave him; I
have no long spoon.
TRINCULO.
Stephano! If thou beest Stephano, touch me, and speak to me; for I am
Trinculo—be not afeared—thy good friend Trinculo.
STEPHANO.
If thou beest Trinculo, come forth. I’ll pull thee by the lesser legs:
if any be Trinculo’s legs, these are they. Thou art very Trinculo
indeed! How cam’st thou to be the siege of this moon-calf? Can he vent
Trinculos?
TRINCULO.
I took him to be kill’d with a thunderstroke. But art thou not drown’d,
Stephano? I hope now thou are not drown’d. Is the storm overblown? I
hid me under the dead moon-calf’s gaberdine for fear of the storm. And
art thou living, Stephano? O Stephano, two Neapolitans scap’d!
STEPHANO.
Prithee, do not turn me about. My stomach is not constant.
CALIBAN.
[_Aside._] These be fine things, an if they be not sprites.
That’s a brave god, and bears celestial liquor.
I will kneel to him.
STEPHANO.
How didst thou scape? How cam’st thou hither? Swear by this bottle how
thou cam’st hither—I escaped upon a butt of sack, which the sailors
heaved o’erboard, by this bottle! which I made of the bark of a tree
with mine own hands, since I was cast ashore.
CALIBAN.
I’ll swear upon that bottle to be thy true subject, for the liquor is
not earthly.
STEPHANO.
Here. Swear then how thou escapedst.
TRINCULO.
Swum ashore, man, like a duck: I can swim like a duck, I’ll be sworn.
STEPHANO.
Here, kiss the book. Though thou canst swim like a duck, thou art made
like a goose.
TRINCULO.
O Stephano, hast any more of this?
STEPHANO.
The whole butt, man: my cellar is in a rock by th’ seaside, where my
wine is hid. How now, moon-calf! How does thine ague?
CALIBAN.
Hast thou not dropped from heaven?
STEPHANO.
Out o’ the moon, I do assure thee: I was the Man in the Moon, when time
was.
CALIBAN.
I have seen thee in her, and I do adore thee. My mistress showed me
thee, and thy dog, and thy bush.
STEPHANO.
Come, swear to that. Kiss the book. I will furnish it anon with new
contents. Swear.
TRINCULO.
By this good light, this is a very shallow monster. I afeard of him? A
very weak monster. The Man i’ the Moon! A most poor credulous monster!
Well drawn, monster, in good sooth!
CALIBAN.
I’ll show thee every fertile inch o’ the island; and I will kiss thy
foot. I prithee, be my god.
TRINCULO.
By this light, a most perfidious and drunken monster. When ’s god’s
asleep, he’ll rob his bottle.
CALIBAN.
I’ll kiss thy foot. I’ll swear myself thy subject.
STEPHANO.
Come on, then; down, and swear.
TRINCULO.
I shall laugh myself to death at this puppy-headed monster. A most
scurvy monster! I could find in my heart to beat him,—
STEPHANO.
Come, kiss.
TRINCULO.
But that the poor monster’s in drink. An abominable monster!
CALIBAN.
I’ll show thee the best springs; I’ll pluck thee berries;
I’ll fish for thee, and get thee wood enough.
A plague upon the tyrant that I serve!
I’ll bear him no more sticks, but follow thee,
Thou wondrous man.
TRINCULO.
A most ridiculous monster, to make a wonder of a poor drunkard!
CALIBAN.
I prithee, let me bring thee where crabs grow;
And I with my long nails will dig thee pig-nuts;
Show thee a jay’s nest, and instruct thee how
To snare the nimble marmoset; I’ll bring thee
To clustering filberts, and sometimes I’ll get thee
Young scamels from the rock. Wilt thou go with me?
STEPHANO.
I prithee now, lead the way without any more talking. Trinculo, the
King and all our company else being drowned, we will inherit here.
Here, bear my bottle. Fellow Trinculo, we’ll fill him by and by again.
CALIBAN.
[_Sings drunkenly._] _Farewell, master; farewell, farewell!_
TRINCULO.
A howling monster, a drunken monster.
CALIBAN.
_No more dams I’ll make for fish;
Nor fetch in firing
At requiring,
Nor scrape trenchering, nor wash dish;
’Ban ’Ban, Cacaliban,
Has a new master—Get a new man._
Freedom, high-day! high-day, freedom! freedom,
high-day, freedom!
STEPHANO.
O brave monster! lead the way.
[_Exeunt._]
ACT III
SCENE I. Before Prospero’s cell.
Enter Ferdinand bearing a log.
FERDINAND.
There be some sports are painful, and their labour
Delight in them sets off: some kinds of baseness
Are nobly undergone; and most poor matters
Point to rich ends. This my mean task
Would be as heavy to me as odious, but
The mistress which I serve quickens what’s dead,
And makes my labours pleasures: O, she is
Ten times more gentle than her father’s crabbed,
And he’s compos’d of harshness. I must remove
Some thousands of these logs, and pile them up,
Upon a sore injunction: my sweet mistress
Weeps when she sees me work, and says such baseness
Had never like executor. I forget:
But these sweet thoughts do even refresh my labours,
Most busy, least when I do it.
Enter Miranda and Prospero behind.
MIRANDA.
Alas now, pray you,
Work not so hard: I would the lightning had
Burnt up those logs that you are enjoin’d to pile!
Pray, set it down and rest you. When this burns,
’Twill weep for having wearied you. My father
Is hard at study; pray, now, rest yourself:
He’s safe for these three hours.
FERDINAND.
O most dear mistress,
The sun will set, before I shall discharge
What I must strive to do.
MIRANDA.
If you’ll sit down,
I’ll bear your logs the while. Pray give me that;
I’ll carry it to the pile.
FERDINAND.
No, precious creature;
I had rather crack my sinews, break my back,
Than you should such dishonour undergo,
While I sit lazy by.
MIRANDA.
It would become me
As well as it does you: and I should do it
With much more ease; for my good will is to it,
And yours it is against.
PROSPERO.
[_Aside._] Poor worm! thou art infected.
This visitation shows it.
MIRANDA.
You look wearily.
FERDINAND.
No, noble mistress; ’tis fresh morning with me
When you are by at night. I do beseech you—
Chiefly that I might set it in my prayers—
What is your name?
MIRANDA.
Miranda—O my father!
I have broke your hest to say so.
FERDINAND.
Admir’d Miranda!
Indeed, the top of admiration; worth
What’s dearest to the world! Full many a lady
I have ey’d with best regard, and many a time
Th’ harmony of their tongues hath into bondage
Brought my too diligent ear: for several virtues
Have I lik’d several women; never any
With so full soul but some defect in her
Did quarrel with the noblest grace she ow’d,
And put it to the foil: but you, O you,
So perfect and so peerless, are created
Of every creature’s best.
MIRANDA.
I do not know
One of my sex; no woman’s face remember,
Save, from my glass, mine own; nor have I seen
More that I may call men than you, good friend,
And my dear father: how features are abroad,
I am skilless of; but, by my modesty,
The jewel in my dower, I would not wish
Any companion in the world but you;
Nor can imagination form a shape,
Besides yourself, to like of. But I prattle
Something too wildly, and my father’s precepts
I therein do forget.
FERDINAND.
I am, in my condition,
A prince, Miranda; I do think, a King;
I would not so!—and would no more endure
This wooden slavery than to suffer
The flesh-fly blow my mouth. Hear my soul speak:
The very instant that I saw you, did
My heart fly to your service; there resides,
To make me slave to it; and for your sake
Am I this patient log-man.
MIRANDA.
Do you love me?
FERDINAND.
O heaven, O earth, bear witness to this sound,
And crown what I profess with kind event,
If I speak true; if hollowly, invert
What best is boded me to mischief! I,
Beyond all limit of what else i’ the world,
Do love, prize, honour you.
MIRANDA.
I am a fool
To weep at what I am glad of.
PROSPERO.
[_Aside._] Fair encounter
Of two most rare affections! Heavens rain grace
On that which breeds between ’em!
FERDINAND.
Wherefore weep you?
MIRANDA.
At mine unworthiness, that dare not offer
What I desire to give; and much less take
What I shall die to want. But this is trifling;
And all the more it seeks to hide itself,
The bigger bulk it shows. Hence, bashful cunning!
And prompt me, plain and holy innocence!
I am your wife if you will marry me;
If not, I’ll die your maid: to be your fellow
You may deny me; but I’ll be your servant,
Whether you will or no.
FERDINAND.
My mistress, dearest;
And I thus humble ever.
MIRANDA.
My husband, then?
FERDINAND.
Ay, with a heart as willing
As bondage e’er of freedom: here’s my hand.
MIRANDA.
And mine, with my heart in ’t: and now farewell
Till half an hour hence.
FERDINAND.
A thousand thousand!
[_Exeunt Ferdinand and Miranda severally._]
PROSPERO.
So glad of this as they, I cannot be,
Who are surpris’d withal; but my rejoicing
At nothing can be more. I’ll to my book;
For yet, ere supper time, must I perform
Much business appertaining.
[_Exit._]