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Of thee, my dear one, thee, my daughter, who
Art ignorant of what thou art, nought knowing
Of whence I am, nor that I am more better
Than Prospero, master of a full poor cell,
And thy no greater father.

Miranda.

And thy no greater father.‍More to know
Did never meddle with my thoughts.

Prospero.

And thy no greater father. More to know ‍’Tis time
I should inform thee farther. Lend thy hand,
And pluck my magic garment from me. So:
[Lays down his mantle.
Lie there, my art. Wipe thou mine eyes; have comfort.
The direful spectacle of the wreck, which touch’d
The very virtue of compassion in thee,
I have with such provision in mine art
So safely ordered 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 farther.

Miranda.

For thou must now know farther. ‍You have often
Begun to tell me what I am, but stopp’d
And left me to a bootless inquisition,
Concluding “Stay: not yet.”

Prospero.

Concluding “Stay: not yet.” ‍The hour ’s now come;
The very minute bids thee ope thine ear;