Shakespeare - First Folio facsimile (1910)/The Tempest/Act 3 Scene 1
Actus Tertius. Scæna Prima.
Enter Ferdinand (bearing a Log.)
Fer.There be some Sports are painfull; & their laborDelight in them set off: Some kindes of basenesseAre nobly vndergon; and most poore mattersPoint to rich ends: this my meane TaskeWould be as heauy to me, as odious, butThe Mistris which I serue, quickens what's dead,And makes my labours, pleasures: O She isTen times more gentle, then her Father's crabbed;And he's compos'd of harshnesse. I must remoueSome thousands of these Logs, and pile them vp,Vpon a fore iniunction; my sweet MistrisWeepes when she sees me worke, & saies, such basenesHad neuer like Executor; I forget;But these sweet thoughts, doe euen refresh my labours,Most busie lest, when I doe it.
Enter Miranda and Prospero.
Mir.Alas, now pray youWorke not so hard: I would the lightning hadBurnt vp those Logs that you are enioynd to pile:Pray set it downe, and rest you: when this burnes'Twill weepe for hauing wearied you: my FatherIs hard at study; pray now rest your selfe, Hee's safe for these three houres.
Fer. O most deere Mistris,The Sun will set before I shall dischargeWhat I must striue to do.
Mir. If you'l sit downeIle beare your Logges the while: pray giue me that,Ile carry it to the pile.
Fer. No precious Creature,I had rather cracke my sinewes, breake my backe,Then you should such dishonor vndergoe,While I sit lazy by.
Mir. It would become meAs well as it do's you; and I should do itWith much more ease: for my good will is to it,And yours it is against.
Pro. Poore worme thou art infected,This visitation shewes it.
Mir. You looke wearily.
Fer. No, noble Mistris, 'tis fresh morning with meWhen you are by at night: I do beseech youCheefely, that I might set it in my prayers,What is your name?
Mir. Miranda, O my Father,I haue broke your hest to say so.
Fir. Admir'd Miranda,Indeede the top of Admiration, worthWhat's deerest to the world: full many a LadyI haue ey'd with best regard, and many a timeTh'harmony of their tongues, hath into bondageBrought my too diligent care: for seuerall vertuesHaue I lik'd seuerall women, neuer anyWith so full soule, but some defect in herDid quarrell with the noblest grace she ow'd,And put it to the soile. But you, O you,So perfect, and so peetlesse, are createdOf euerie Creatures best.
Mir. I do not knowOne of my sexe; no womans face remember,Saue from my glasse, mine owne: Nor haue I seeneMore that I may call men, then you good friend,And my deere Father; how features are abroadI am skillesse of; but by my modestie(The iewell in my dower) I would not wishAny Companion in the world but you:Nor can imagination forme a shapeBesides your selfe, to like of: but I prattleSomething too wildely, and my Fathers preceptsI therein do forget.
Fer. I am, in my conditionA Prince (Miranda) I do thinke a King(I would not so) and would no more endureThis wodden slauerie, then to sufferThe flesh-flie blow my mouth: heare my soule speake.The verie instant that I saw you, didMy heart flie to your seruice, there residesTo make me slave to it, and for your sakeAm I this patient Logge-man.
Mir.Do you loue me?
Fer. O heauen; O earth, beare witnes to this sound,And crowne what I professe with kinde euentIf I speake true: if hollowly, inuertWhat best is boaded me, to mischiefe: I,Beyond all limit of what else i'th worldDo loue, prize, honor you.
Mir. I am a fooleTo weepe at what I am glad of.
Pro. Faire encounterOf two most rare affections: heauens raine graceOn that which breeds betweene 'em.
Fer. Wherefore weepe you?
Mir:At mine vnworthinesse, that dare not offerWhat I desire to giue; and much lesse takeWhat I shall die to want: But this is trifling,And all the more it seekes to hide it selfe,The bigger bulke it shewes. Hence bashfull cunning,And prompt me plaine and holy innocence.I am your wife, if you will marrie me;If not, Ile die your maid: to be your fellowYou may denie me, but Ile be your seruantWhether you will or no.
Fer. My Mistris (deerest)And I thus humble euer.
Mir. My husband then?
Fer. I, with a heart as willingAs bondage ere of freedome: heere's my hand.
Mir. And mine, with my heart in't; and now farewelTill halfe an houre hence.
Fer. Exeunt.A thousand, thousand.
Pro. So glad of this as they I cannot be,Who are surpriz'd with all; but my reioycingAt nothing can be more: Ile to my booke,For yet ere supper time, must I performeExit.Much businesse appertaining.