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Enter Ferdinand, and Ariel invifible, playing and finging.
Curt'fied when you have and kist;
The wild waves whift;
Ari. Hark, bark, I hear
Foot it featly here and there,
And fweet Sprites the burthen bear. [Burthen difperfedly.
The ftrain of ftrutting chanticlere
Fer. Where fhould this mufick be? in air, or earth?
Fer. The ditty does remember my drown'd father;
That the earth owns: I hear it now above me.
Pro. The fringed curtains of thine eye advance,
Mira. What is't, a fpirit?
Lord, how it looks about! believe me, fir,
Pro. No, wench, it eats, and fleeps, and hath fuch fenfes
As we have, fuch. This gallant which thou feeft
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
Fer. Moft fure, the goddess
On whom these airs attend! vouchfafe, my pray'r
May know if you remain upon this island,
Mira. No wonder, fir,
Fer. My language! heav'ns!
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 fear, you've done yourself some wrong: a word.
Fer. O, if a virgin,
And your affection not gone forth, I'll make you
Pro. Soft, fir, one word more.
They're both in either's pow'r: but this swift business
Make the prize light. Sir, one word more; I charge thee [To Ariel.
From me, the lord on't.
Fer. No, as I'm a man.
Mira. There's nothing ill can dwell in fuch a temple.
Pro. Follow me.
Speak you not for him: he's a traitor.
I will refift fuch entertainment, 'till
He draws, and is charmed from moving.
Mira. O dear father,
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,
Having feen but him and Caliban; foolish wench,
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,
Fer. So they are:
My fpirits, as in a dream, are all bound up.
The wreck of all my friends, and this man's threats,
Pro. It works: come on.