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

A 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

Oh, my heart bleeds

To think o' the 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

B

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 more perfected how to grant suits,
How to deny them, who to 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' the 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.

Oh, good sir, I do.

MIRANDA

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 the 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' the 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' the 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 the purpose, did Antonio open

The gates of Milan; and, i' the dead of darkness,
The ministers for the purpose hurried thence
Me and thy crying self.

MIRANDA

Alack, for pity!

I, not remembering 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 's; without the which, this story

Were most impertinent.

That hour destroy us?

MIRANDA

Wherefore did they not

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 prepar'd
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 the sea that roar'd to us; to sigh
To the winds, whose pity, sighing back again,
Did us but loving wrong.

Thou wast that did preserve me. Thou didst smile,