In the dark backward and abysm of time?

If thou remember'st aught ere thou cam'st here,
How thou cam'st here thou may'st.

Mira.

But that I do not.

Pro. Twelve year since, Miranda, twelve year

since,

Thy father was the Duke of Milan, and

A prince of power.

Mira.

Sir, are not you my father?

Pro. 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.

Mira.

O, the heavens !

What foul play had we, that we came from thence ?

Or blessed was 't, we did!

Pro.

Both, both, my girl :

By foul play, as thou say'st, were we heaved

thence ;

But blessedly holp hither.

Mira.

O, my heart bleeds

To think o' the teen that I have turned you to,

Which is from my remembrance.

farther.

Please you,

Pro. My brother, and thy uncle, called Antonio,—

I pray thee, mark me,—that a brother should
Be so perfidious !—he whom, next thyself,
Of all the world I loved, and to him put
The manage of my state, as, at that time,
Through all the signiories 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?

Mira.

Sir, most heedfully.—

Pro. Being once 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 changed

them,

Or else new formed them: having both the key
Of officer and office, set all hearts i' the state
To what tune pleased his ear; that now he was
The ivy which had hid my princely trunk,

And sucked my verdure out on 't.-Thou attend'st

not.

Mira. O, good sir, I do!

Pro.

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 retired,
O'er-prized all popular rate, in my false brother
Awaked 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 unto 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?

Mira. Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.— Pro. To have no screen between this part he played,

And him he played 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) with the King of Naples

To give him annual tribute, do him homage,
Subject his coronet to his crown, and bend
The dukedom, yet unbowed, (alas, poor Milan !)
To most ignoble stooping.

Mira.

O the heavens !

Pro. Mark his condition, and the event, then

tell me

If this might be a brother.

Mira.

I should sin

To think but nobly of my grandmother:
Good wombs have borne bad sons.

Pro.

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.

Mira.

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.

Pro.

Hear a little further,

And then I'll bring thee to the present business

Which now's upon's; without the which, this

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 boat, not rigged,
Nor tackle, sail, nor mast; the very rats
Instinctively have quit it: there they hoist us,
To cry to the sea that roared to us; to sigh
To the winds, whose pity, sighing back again,
Did us but loving wrong.

Mira.

Was I then to you!

Alack, what trouble

Pro.

O, a cherubin