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Enter Ferdinand, and Ariel invifible, playing and finging.

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Curt'fied when you have and kist;

The wild waves whift;

Ari. Hark, bark, I hear

[Exit Caliban.

Foot it featly here and there,

And fweet Sprites the burthen bear. [Burthen difperfedly.
Hark, bark, bough-wawgh: the watch-dogs bark,


The ftrain of ftrutting chanticlere
Cry, Cock-a-doodle-do.

Fer. Where fhould this mufick be? in air, or earth?
It founds no more: and, fure, it waits upon
Some god o' th' ifland. Sitting on a bank,
Weeping against the king my father's wreck,
This mufick crept by me upon the waters,
Allaying both their fury, and my paffion,
With it's fweet air: thence I have follow'd it,
Or it hath drawn me, rather—but 'tis gone.
No, it begins again.


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Fer. The ditty does remember my drown'd father;
This is no mortal business, nor no found

That the earth owns: I hear it now above me.

[Burthen: ding-dong.


Pro. The fringed curtains of thine eye advance,
And fay, what thou feeft yond.

Mira. What is't, a fpirit?

Lord, how it looks about! believe me, fir,
It carries a brave form. But 'tis a spirit.

Pro. No, wench, it eats, and fleeps, and hath fuch fenfes

As we have, fuch. This gallant which thou feeft
Was in the wreck: and, but he's something stain’d
With grief (that's beauty's canker) thou might'st call him
A goodly perfon. He hath loft his fellows,

And ftrays about to find 'em.

Mira. I might call him

A thing divine, for nothing natural

I ever faw fo noble.

Pro. It goes on,

I fee, as my foul prompts it. Spirit, I'll free thee
Within two days for this.

Fer. Moft fure, the goddess

On whom these airs attend! vouchfafe, my pray'r



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May know if you remain upon this island,
And that you will fome good inftruction give
How I may bear me here: my prime request,
Which I do laft pronounce, is, O you wonder!
If you be made, or no?

Mira. No wonder, fir,
But, certainly, a maid.

Fer. My language! heav'ns!
I am the best of them that speak this speech,
Were I but where 'tis spoken.

Pro. How? the best?

What wert thou if the king of Naples heard thee?

Fer. A fingle 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 (ne'er fince at ebb) beheld The king my father wreck'd.

Mira. Alack, for mercy!

Fer. Yes, faith, and all his lords; the duke of Milan And his brave fon, being twain.

Pro. The duke of Milan,

And his more braver daughter, could controll thee,

If now 'twere fit to do't. At the first fight

They have chang'd eyes: (delicate Ariel,
I'll fet thee free for this.) A word, good fir,

I fear, you've done yourself some wrong: a word.
Mira. Why speaks my father so ungently? this
Is the third man that e'er I faw; the first
That e'er I figh'd for. Pity move my father
To be inclin❜d my way!

Fer. O, if a virgin,

And your affection not gone forth, I'll make you
The queen of Naples.

Pro. Soft, fir, one word more.

They're both in either's pow'r: but this swift business
I must uneafie make, left too light winning

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Make the prize light. Sir, one word more; I charge thee [To Ariel.
That thou attend me: thou doft here usurp
The name thou ow'ft not, and haft put thyself
Upon this ifland, as a spy, to win it

From me, the lord on't.

Fer. No, as I'm a man.

Mira. There's nothing ill can dwell in fuch a temple.
If the ill spirit have so fair an house,
Good things will ftrive to dwell with't.

Pro. Follow me.


Speak you not for him: he's a traitor.
I'll manacle thy neck and feet together;
Sea-water fhalt thou drink, thy food shall be
The fresh-brook muscles, wither'd roots, and husks
Wherein the acorn cradled. Follow.

Fer. No,

I will refift fuch entertainment, 'till
Mine enemy has more power.

He draws, and is charmed from moving.

Mira. O dear father,
Make not too rash a tryal of him; for
He's gentle, though not fearful.

Pro. What, I fay,

My foot my tutor? put thy fword up, traitor,

Who mak'st a fhew, but dar'ft not ftrike; thy conscience

Is all poffeft with guilt: come from thy ward,

For I can here difarm thee with this stick,

And make thy weapon drop.

Mira. Befeech you, father.

Pro. Hence: hang not on my garment.

Mira. Sir, have pity;

I'll be his furety.

Pro. Silence: one word more

Shall make me chide thee, if not hate thee. What,

An advocate for an impoftor? hush!

Thou think'st there are no more fuch shapes as he,


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Having feen but him and Caliban; foolish wench,
To th' moft of men this is a Caliban,

And they to him are angels.

Mira. My affections

Are then moft humble: I have no ambition

To fee a goodlier man.

Pro. Come on, obey:

Thy nerves are in their infancy again,
And have no vigour in them.

Fer. So they are:

My fpirits, as in a dream, are all bound up.
My father's lofs, the weakness which I feel,

The wreck of all my friends, and this man's threats,
To whom I am fubdu'd, are but light to me,
Might I but through my prison once a day
Behold this maid: all corners elfe o' th' earth
Let liberty make ufe of; space enough
Have I, in fuch a prison.

Pro. It works: come on.

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