Miranda

Miranda 
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 th’ welkin’s cheek,
Dashes the fire out.

O, the cry did knock
Against my very heart! Poor souls, they perished.

O,
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Prospero
Sit down,
For thou must now know farther.
 They sit.
Miranda
You have often
Begun to tell me what I am, but stopped
And left me to a bootless inquisition,
Concluding “Stay. Not yet.”

What seest thou else
In the dark backward and abysm of time?

Prospero
The hour’s now come.
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Prospero
I, thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated
To closeness and the bettering of my mind
With that which, but by being so retired,
O’erprized all popular rate, in my false brother
Awaked 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,
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Prospero
Mark his condition and th’ event. Then tell me
If this might be a brother.
Miranda
I should sin
To think but nobly of my grandmother.
Good wombs have borne bad sons.

Good wombs have borne bad sons.

Prospero
Now the condition.
This King of Naples,
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Prospero, to Caliban
Thou poisonous slave, got by the devil himself
Upon thy wicked dam, come forth!
 Enter Caliban.
Caliban
As wicked dew as e’er my mother brushed
With raven’s feather from unwholesome fen
Drop on you both. A southwest blow on you
And blister you all o’er.
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Ariel
Come unto these yellow sands,
And then take hands.
Curtsied when you have, and kissed
The wild waves whist.
Foot it featly here and there,
And sweet sprites bear
The burden. Hark, hark!
Burden dispersedly, within: Bow-wow.
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Ariel, invisible, playing and singing.

Come unto these yellow sands,
 And then take hands.
Curtsied when you have, and kissed
 The wild waves whist.
Foot it featly here and there,
 And sweet sprites bear
The burden. Hark,
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Miranda
Why speaks my father so ungently? This
Is the third man that e’er I saw, the first
That e’er I sighed for. Pity move my father
To be inclined my way.
Ferdinand
O, if a virgin,
And your affection not gone forth, I’ll make you
The Queen of Naples.

There’s nothing ill can dwell in such a temple.
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Miranda
You look wearily.
Ferdinand
No, noble mistress, ’tis fresh morning with me
When you are by at night. I do beseech you,
Chiefly that I might set it in my prayers,
What is your name?

But you, O you,
So perfect and so peerless, are created
Of every creature’s best.
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Ferdinand, to Miranda
This is strange. Your father’s in some passion
That works him strongly.
Miranda
Never till this day
Saw I him touched with anger, so distempered.

Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air

Prospero,
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