What's deareft to the World; full many a Lady Mira. I do not know One of my Sex; no Woman's Face remember, The Jewel in my Dower, I would not wish Nor can Imagination form a Shape, you; Befides your felf, to like of; but I prattle Fer. I am, in my Condition, A Prince, Miranda, I do think a King; This wooden Slavery, than to fuffer The Flesh-flie blow my Mouth. Hear my Soul fpeak; The very inftant that I faw you, did My Heart fly to your Service, there refides To make me Slave to it, and for your fake Am I this patient Log-man. Mira. Do you love me! Fer. O Heav'n, O Earth, bear Witness to this Sound, And crown what I profess with kind Event, If I fpeak true; if hollowly, invert What beft is boaded me, to Mischief; I, Mira. I am a Fool To weep at what I am glad of. Whilft thus you mock it; how in ftripping it Seb. Prethee fay on, The fetting of thine Eye and Cheek proclaim Ant. Thus Sir: Although this Lord of weak Remembrance; this When he is earth'd, hath here almost perfuaded Seb. I have no Hope That he's undrown'd. Ant. O, out of that no Hope, What great Hope have you? No Hope that way, is Ambition cannot pierce a Wink beyond, But doubt Discovery there. Will you grant, with me, That Ferdinand is drown'd? Seb. He's gone. Ant. Then tell me who's the next Heir of Naples? Ant. She that is Queen of Tunis; fhe that dwells Ten Leagues beyond Man's Life; the that from Naples The Man i' th' Moon's too flow, 'till new-born Chins We all were Sea-fwallow'd, tho' some cast again, Seb. What Stuff is this? How say you? 'Tis true, my Brother's Daughter's Queen of Tunis, So is the Heir of Naples, 'twixt which Regions There is fome Space. Ant. Ant. A Space whofe ev'ry Cubit As this Gonzalo; I my felf could make A Chough of as deep Chat; O, that you bore Ant. And how does your Content You did fupplant your Brother Profpero. And look how well my Garments fit upon me, Ant. Ay, Sir; where lyes that? If 'twere a Kybe If he were that which now he's like, that's dead; Seb. Thy Cafe, dear Friend, Shall be my Prefident; As thou got'ft Millan, I'll come by Naples. Draw thy Sword, one Stroke And And I the King fhall love thee. Ant. Draw together: And when I rear my Hand, do you the like To fall it on Gonzalo. Seb. O, but one Word. Enter Ariel with Musick and Song. Ari. My Mafter through his Art forefees the Danger That you, his Friend, are in; and fends me forth (For elle his Project dies) to keep them living. [Sings in Gonzalo's Ear. While you here do Snoaring lye, Open-ey'd Conspiracy His time doth take: If of Life you keep a Care, Ant. Then let us both be fudden. Gon. Now, good Angels preferve the King. [They wake. Alon. Why how now ho? awake? why are you drawn? Wherefore this ghaftly Looking? Gon. What's the Matter? Seb. Whilft we ftood here fecuring your Repofe, Alon. I heard nothing. Ant. O, 'twas a Din to fright a Monster's Ear; Alon. Heard you this, Gonzalo? Gon. Upon mine, Honour, Sir, I heard a Humming, Gon. Heav'ns keep him from these Beasts: Alon. Lead away. Ari. Profpero, my Lord, fhall know what I have done. So, King, go fafely on to feek thy Son. [Exeunte Enter Caliban with a Burden of Wood; a Noife of Cal. All the Infections that the Sun fucks up And yet I needs muft curfe. But they'll not pinch, Sometime like Apes, that moe and chatter at me, All wound with Adders, who with cloven Tongues Tri. Here's neither Bush nor Shrub to bear off any Wea ther at all, and another Storm brewing; I hear it fing i'th Wind: Yond fame black Cloud, yond huge one, looks like a foul Bumbard that would fhed his Liquor. If it should Thunder, as it did before, I know not where to hide my Head: Yond fame Cloud cannot chufe but fall by Pailfuls What have we here, a Man or a Fifh? dead or alive? A Fish; he smells like a Fish: A very ancient and fish-like Smell. A kind of, not of the neweft Poor John: Aftrange Fish; were I in England now, as once I was, and had but this Fish painted, not an Holy-day-fool there but would give a piece of Silver; there would this Monfter make a Man; any ftrange Beaft there makes a Man: When they will not give a Doit to relieve a lame Beggar, they will lay out ten to fee a dead Indian. Leg'd like a Man! and his Fins like Arms! warm o'my troth: I do now let loofe my Opinion, hold it no longer; this is no Fish, but an Iflander, that hath lately suffer'd by a Thunderbolt: Alas! the Storm is come + again,' |