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The Tempest.
(Who had no doubt some noble creature in her)Dafh'd all to peeces: O the cry did knockeAgainst my very heart: poore soules, they perish'd.Had I byn any God of power, I wouldHaue suncke the Sea within the Earth, or ereIt should the good Ship so haue swallow'd, andThe fraughting Soules within her.
Pros. Be collected,No more amazement: Tell your pitteous heartthere's no harme done.
Mira. O woe, the day.
Pros. No harme:I haue done nothing, but in care of thee(Of thee my deere one; thee my daughter) whoArt ignorant of what thou art. naught knowingOf whence I am: nor that I am more betterThen Prospero, Master of a full poore cell,And thy no greater Father.
Mira. More to knowDid neuer medle with my thoughts.
Pros. 'Tis timeI should in forme thee farther: Lend thy handAnd plucke my Magick garment from me: So,Lye there my Art: wipe thou thine eyes, haue comfort,The direfull spectacle of the wracke which touch'dThe very vertue of companion in thee:I haue with such prouision in mine ArtSo safely ordered, that there is no souleNo not so much perdition as an hayreBetid to any creature in the vessellWhich thou heardst cry, which thou saw'st sinke: Sit downe,For thou must now know farther.
Mira. You haue oftenBegun to tell me what I am, but stoptAnd left me to a bootelesse Inquisition,Concluding, stay: not yet.
Pros. The howr's now comeThe very minute byds thee ope thine eare,Obey, and be attentiue. Canst thou rememberA time before we came vnto this Cell?I doe not thinke thou canst, for then thou was't notOut three yeeres old.
Mira. Certainely Sir, I can.
Pros. By what? by any other house, or person?Of any thing the Image, tell me, thatHath kept with thy remembrance.
Mira. 'Tis farre off:And rather like a dreame, then an assuranceThat my remembrance warrants; Had I notFowre, or hue women once, that tended me?
Pros. Thou hadst; and more Miranda: But how is itThat this liues in thy minde? What seest thou elsIn the dark-backward and Abisme of Time?Yf thou remembrest ought ere thou cam'st here,How thou cam'st here thou maist.
Mira. But that I doe not.
'Pros. Twelue yere since (Miranda) twelue yere since,Thy father was the Duke of Millainc andA Prince of power.'
Mira. Sir, are not you my Father?
Pros. Thy Mother was a peece of vertue, andShe said thou wast my daughter; and thy fatherWas Duke of Millaine, and his onely heire,And Princesse: no worse Issued.
Mira. O the heauens,What fowle play had we, that we came from thence?Or blessed was't we did?
Pros. Both, both my Girle.By fowle-play (as thou saist) were we heau'd thence,But blessedly holpe hither.
Mira. O my heart bleedesTo thinke oth'teene that I haue turn'd you to,Which is from my remembrance, please you, farther;
Pros. My brother and thy vncle, call'd Anthonio: I pray thee marke me, that a brother shouldBe so perfidious: he, whom next thy selseOf all the world I lou'd, and to him putThe mannage of my state, as at that timeThrough all the signories it was the first,And Prospero, the prime Duke, being so reputedIn dignity; and for the liberall Artes,Without a paralell; those being all my studie,The Gouernment I cast vpon my brother,And to my State grew stranger, being transportedAnd rapt in secret studies, thy false vncle(Do'st thou attend me? )
Mira. Sir, most heedefully.
Pros. Being once perfected how to graunt suites,how to deny them: who t'aduance, and whoTo trash for ouer-topping; new createdThe creatures that were mine, I say, or chang'd'em,Or els new form'd'em: hauing both the key,Of Officer, and office, set all hearts i'th stateTo what tune pleas'd his eare, that now he wasThe Iuy which had hid my princely Trunck,And suckt my verdure out on't: Thou attend'st not?
Mira. O good Sir, I doe.
Pros. I pray thee marke me:I thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicatedTo closenes, and the bettering of my mindwith that, which but by being so retir'dOre-priz'd all popular rate: in my false brotherAwak'd an euill nature, and my trustLike a good parent, did beget of himA falsehood in it's contrarie, as greatAs my trust was, which had indeede no limit,A confidence fans bound. He being thus Lorded,Not onely with what my reuenew yeelded,But what my power might els exact. Like oneWho hauing into truth, by telling of it,Made such a synner of his memorieTo credite his owne lie, he did beleeueHe was indeed the Duke, out o'th'SubstitutionAnd executing th'outward face of RoialtieWith all prerogatiue: hence his Ambition growing:Do'stthou heare?
Mira. Your tale, Sir, would cure deafenesse.
Pros. To haue no Schreene between this part he plaid,And him he plaid it for, he needes will beAbsolute Millainc, Me (poore man) my LibrarieWas Dukedome large enough: of temporall roaltiesHe thinks me now incapable. Confederates(so drie he was for Sway) with King of Naples To giue him Annuall tribute, doe him homageSubiect his Coronet, to his Crowne and bendThe Dukedom yet vnbow'd (alas poore Millainc) To most ignoble stooping.
Mira. Oh the heauens:
Prof. Marke his condition, and th'euent, then tell meIf this might be a brother.
Mira. I should sinneTo thinke but Noblie of my Grand-mother,
Good
