If by your art, my dearest father

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, I have suffered
With those that I saw suffer! A brave vessel,
Who had, no doubt, some noble creature in her,
Dashed all to pieces. O, the cry did knock
Against my very heart! Poor souls, they perished.
Had I been any god of power, I would
Have sunk the sea within the earth or ere
It should the good ship so have swallowed, and
The fraughting souls within her.
Prospero
Be collected.
No more amazement. Tell your piteous heart
There’s no harm done.
Miranda
O, woe the day!
Prospero
No harm.
I have done nothing but in care of thee,
Of thee, my dear one, thee, my daughter, who
Art ignorant of what thou art, naught 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
More to know
Did never meddle with my thoughts.
Prospero
’Tis time
I should inform thee farther. Lend thy hand
And pluck my magic garment from me.
 Putting aside his cloak.
So,
Lie there, my art.—Wipe thou thine eyes. Have comfort.
The direful spectacle of the wrack, which touched
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.