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Seb. A pox o' your throat, you bawling, blasphemous, incharitable dog!

Boats. Work you, then.

Ant. Hang, cur, hang! you whoreson, insolent noisemaker, we are less afraid to be drowned than thou art.

Gon. I'll warrant him for drowning; though the ship were no stronger than a nutshell, and as leaky as an unstanched wench.

Boats. Lay her a-hold, a-hold! set her two courses! off to sea again; lay her off!

Re-enter Mariners wet.

Mariners. All lost! to prayers, to prayers! all lost!

Boats. What, must our mouths be cold?


Gon. The king and prince at prayers! let's assist them, For our case is as theirs.


I'm out of patience.

Ant. We are merely cheated of our lives by drunkards:This wide-chapp'd rascal, — would thou mightst lie drowning, The washing of ten tides!


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He'll be hang'd yet, Though every drop of water swear against it, And gape at wid'st to glut him.

[A confused noise within, "We split, we split!"



'Mercy on us!"

"Farewell, my wife and children!". "We split, we split, we split!"]


[Exit Boatswain.

Ant. Let's all sink with the king.


Let's take leave of him.


Gon. Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for

an acre of barren ground,

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ling, heath, broom, furze, any thing. The wills above be done! but I would fain die a dry




The island: before the cell of PROSPERO.


Mir. If by your art, my dearest father, you have
Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them.
The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch,
But that the sea, mounting to the welkin's cheek,
Dashes the fire out. O, I have suffer'd

With those that I saw suffer! a brave vessel,
Who had, no doubt, some noble creatures in her,
Dash'd all to pieces. O, the cry did knock
Against my very heart! Poor souls, they perish'd!
Had I been any god of power, I would

Have sunk the sea within the earth, or e'er

It should the good ship so have swallow'd, and
The fraughting souls within her.


Be collected; No more amazement: tell your piteous heart There's no harm done.

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No harm.

I have done nothing but in care of thee,
Of thee, my dear one, thee, my daughter,
Art ignorant of what thou art, naught knowing
Of whence I am, nor that I am more better
Than Prospero, master of a full poor cell,
And thy no greater father.


More to know

Did never meddle with my thoughts.


"Tis time

I should inform thee further. Lend thy hand,
And pluck my magic garment from me. So:


[Lays down his robe. Lie there, my art. Wipe thou thine eyes; have comfort. The direful spectacle of the wreck, which touch'd The very virtue of compassion in thee,

I have with such prevision in mine art

So safely order'd, that there is no soul
No, not so much perdition as an hair
Betid to any creature in the vessel

Which thou heard'st cry, which thou saw'st sink. Sit down; For thou must now know further.

You have often

Begun to tell me what I am; but stopp'd,
And left me to a bootless inquisition,
Concluding, "Stay, not yet."


The hour's now come;

The very minute bids thee ope thine ear:
Obey, and be attentive. Canst thou remember
A time before we came unto this cell?

I do not think thou canst, for then thou wast not
Out three years old.

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Pros. By what? by any other house or person? Of any thing the image tell me that

Hath kept with thy remembrance.


"Tis far off,

And rather like a dream than an assurance
That my remembrance warrants. Had I not
Four or five women once that tended me?

Pros. Thou hadst, and more, Miranda.

But how is it

That this lives in thy mind? What see'st thou else
In the dark backward and abysm of time?

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


But that I do not.

Pros. Twelve year since, Miranda, twelve year since, Thy father was the Duke of Milan, and

A prince of power.


Sir, are not you my father?

Pros. Thy mother was a piece of virtue, and She said thou wast my daughter; and thy father Was Duke of Milan; thou his only heir,

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O the heavens!

What foul play had we, that we came from thence?
Or blessed was't we did?


Both, both, my girl:
By foul play, as thou say'st, were we heav'd thence;
But blessedly holp hither.


O, my heart bleeds
To think o' the teen that I have turn'd you to,

Which is from my remembrance! Please you, further.
Pros. My brother, and thy uncle, call'd Antonio,
I pray thee, mark me,
Be so perfidious!

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that a brother should

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 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?


Sir, most heedfully.

Pros. Being once perfected how to grant suits, How to deny them, who t' advance, and who

To trash for over-topping,


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.
Mir. O, good sir, I do.


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,

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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

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He was indeed the duke; out o' the substitution,
And executing th' outward face of royalty,

With all prerogative: - hence his ambition growing, ·
Dost thou hear?


Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.

Pros. 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 with 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.


O the heavens!

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Pros. Mark his condition, and th' event; then tell me If this might be a brother.

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


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,

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