Mira.

O deere Father,

What I say,

Make not too rash a triall of him, for

Hee's gentle, and not fearfull,

Pros.

My foote my Tutor? Put thy sword up Traitor,

Who mak'st a shew, but dar'st not strike: thy conscience
Is so possest with guilt: Come, from thy ward,

For I can heere disarme thee with this sticke,
And make thy weapon drop.

Mira.

Pros. Hence, hang not on my garments.

Mira.

Ile be his surety.

Pros.

Beseech you Father.

Sir have pity,

Silence: One word more

Shall make me chide thee, if not hate thee: What,

An advocate for an Impostor? Hush :

Thou think'st there is no more such shapes as he,

(Having seene but him and Caliban :) Foolish wench, To th'most of men, this is a Caliban,

And they to him are Angels.

Mira.

My affections

Are then most humble: I have no ambition

To see a goodlier man.

Pros.

Come on, obey:

Thy Nerves are in their infancy againe.

And have no vigour in them.

Fer.

So they are:

My spirits, as in a dreame, are all bound up:

My Fathers losse, the weaknesse which I feele,
The wracke of all my friends, nor this mans threats,
To whom I am subdude, are but light to me,
Might I but through my prison once a day

Behold this Mayd: all corners else o'th'Earth
Let liberty make use of: space enough
Have I in such a prison.

Pros.

It workes: Come on.

Thou hast done well, fine Ariell: follow me,

Harke what thou else shalt do mee.

Mira.

My Fathers of a better nature (Sir)

Be of comfort,

Then he appeares by speech: this is unwonted

Which now came from him.

Pros.

Thou shalt be as free

As mountaine windes; but then exactly do

All points of my command.

Ariell.

To th'syllable.

Pros. Come follow: speake not for him.

Actus Secundus.

Exeunt.

Scana Prima.

Enter Alonso, Sebastian, Anthonio, Gonzalo, Adrian, Francisco,

and others.

Gonz. Beseech you Sir, be merry; you have cause, (So have we all) of joy; for our escape

Is much beyond our losse; our hint of woe

Is common, every day, some Saylors wife,

The Masters of some Merchant, and the Merchant
Have just our Theame of woe; but for the miracle,
(I meane our preservation) few in millions
Can speake like us: then wisely (good Sir) weigh
Our sorrow, with our comfort.

Alons.

Prethee peace.

Seb. He receives comfort like cold porredge.

Ant. The Visitor will not give him ore so.

Seb. Looke, hee's winding up the watch of his wit,

By and by it will strike.

Gon. Sir.

Seb. One: Tell.

Gon. When every greefe is entertaind,

That's offer'd comes to th'entertainer.

Seb. A dollor.

Gon. Dolour comes to him indeed, you have spoken truer then

you purpos'd.

Seb. You have taken it wiselier then I meant you should.

Gon. Therefore my Lord.

Ant. Fie, what a spend-thrift is he of his tongue.

Alon. I pre-thee spare.

Gon. Well, I have done: But yet

Seb. He will be talking.

Ant. Which, of he, or Adrian, for a good wager, first begins

to crow?

Seb. The old Cocke.

Ant. The Cockrell,

Seb. Done: The wager?

Ant. A Laughter.

Seb. A match.

Adr. Though this Island seeme to be desert.

Seb. Ha, ha, ha.

Ant. So; you'r paid.

Adr. Uninhabitable, and almost inaccessible.

Seb. Yet

Adr. Yet

Ant. He could not misse't.

Adr. It must needs be of subtle, tender, and delicate temper

ance.

Ant. Temperance was a delicate wench.

Seb. I, and a subtle, as he most learnedly deliver'd.

Adr. The ayre breathes upon us here most sweetly.
Seb. As if it had Lungs, and rotten ones.

Ant. Or, as 'twere perfum'd by a Fen.

Gon. Heere is every thing advantageous to life.
Ant. True, save meanes to live.

Seb. Of that there's none, or little.

Gon. How lush and lusty the grasse lookes?

How greene?

Ant. The ground indeed is tawny.

Ant. He misses not much.

Seb. No he doth but mistake the truth totally.

Gon. But the rariety of it is, which is indeed almost beyond credit.

Seb. As many voucht rarieties are.

Gon. That our Garments being (as they were) drencht in the Sea, hold notwithstanding their freshnesse and glosses, being rather new dy'de then stain'd with salte water.

Ant. If but one of his pockets could speake, would it not say he lyes?

Seb. I, or very falsely pocket up his report.

Gon. Me thinkes our garments are now as fresh as when we put them on first in Affricke, at the marriage of the kings faire daughter Claribel to the king of Tunis.

Seb. 'Twas a sweet marriage, and we prosper well in our returne. Adri. Tunis was never grac'd before with such a Paragon to their Queene.

Gon. Not since widdow Dido's time.

Ant. Widow? A pox o'that: how came that Widdow in? Widdow Dido!

Seb. What if he had said Widdower Eneas too? Good Lord, how you take it?

Adri. Widdow Dido said you? You make me study of that: She was of Carthage, not of Tunis.

Gon. This Tunis Sir was Carthage.

Adri. Carthage?

Gon. I assure you Carthage.

Ant. His word is more then the miraculous Harpe.

Seb. He hath rais'd the wall, and houses too.

Ant. What impossible matter wil he make easy next?

Seb. I thinke hee will carry this Island home in his pocket,

and give it his sonne for an Apple.

Ant. And sowing the kernels of it in the Sea, bring forth more Islands.

Gon. I.

Ant. Why in good time.

Gon. Sir, we were talking, that our garments seeme now as fresh as when we were at Tunis at the marriage of your daughter, who is now Queene.

Ant. And the rarest that ere came there.

Seb. Bate (I beseech you) widdow Dido.

Ant. O Widdow Dido? I, Widdow Dido.

Gon. Is not Sir my doublet as fresh as the first day I wore it : I meane in a sort.

Ant. That sort was well fish'd for.

Gon. When I wore it at your daughters marriage.
Alon. You cram these words into mine eares, against
The stomacke of my sense: would I had never
Married my daughter there: For comming thence
My sonne is lost, and (in my rate) she too,
Who is so farre from Italy removed,

I ne're againe shall see her: O thou mine heire
Of Naples and of Millaine, what strange fish
Hath made his meale on thee?

Fran.

Sir he may live,

I saw him beate the surges under him,

And ride upon their backes; he trod the water
Whose enmity he flung aside: and brested

The surge most swolne that met him: his bold head
'Bove the contentious waves he kept, and oared
Himselfe with his good armes in lusty stroke

To th'shore; that ore his wave-worne basis bowed
As stooping to releeve him: I not doubt

He came alive to Land,

Alon.

No, no, hee's gone.

Seb. Sir you may thank your selfe for this great losse, That would not blesse our Europe with your daughter, But rather loose her to an Affrican,

Where she at least, is banish'd from your eye,

Who hath cause to wet the greefe on't.

Alon.

Pre-thee peace.