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You look wearily

You look wearily.
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.

Miranda.—O my father,
I have broke your hest to say so!
Admired Miranda!
Indeed the top of admiration, worth
What’s dearest to the world! Full many a lady
I have eyed with best regard, and many a time
Th’ harmony of their tongues hath into bondage
Brought my too diligent ear. For several virtues
Have I liked several women, never any
With so full soul but some defect in her
Did quarrel with the noblest grace she owed,
And put it to the foil. But you, O you,
So perfect and so peerless, are created
Of every creature’s best.
I do not know
One of my sex, no woman’s face remember,
Save, from my glass, mine own. Nor have I seen
More that I may call men than you, good friend,
And my dear father. How features are abroad
I am skilless of, but by my modesty,
The jewel in my dower, I would not wish
Any companion in the world but you,
Nor can imagination form a shape
Besides yourself to like of. But I prattle
Something too wildly, and my father’s precepts
I therein do forget.
I am in my condition
A prince, Miranda; I do think a king—
I would, not so!—and would no more endure
This wooden slavery than to suffer
The flesh-fly blow my mouth. Hear my soul speak:
The very instant that I saw you did
My heart fly to your service, there resides
To make me slave to it, and for your sake
Am I this patient log-man.
Do you love me?
O heaven, O Earth, bear witness to this sound,
And crown what I profess with kind event
If I speak true; if hollowly, invert
What best is boded me to mischief. I,
Beyond all limit of what else i’ th’ world,
Do love, prize, honor you.
I am a fool
To weep at what I am glad of.
Prospero, aside
Fair encounter
Of two most rare affections. Heavens rain grace
On that which breeds between ’em!
Wherefore weep you?
At mine unworthiness, that dare not offer
What I desire to give, and much less take
What I shall die to want. But this is trifling,
And all the more it seeks to hide itself,
The bigger bulk it shows. Hence, bashful cunning,
And prompt me, plain and holy innocence.
I am your wife if you will marry me.
If not, I’ll die your maid. To be your fellow
You may deny me, but I’ll be your servant
Whether you will or no.
My mistress, dearest, and I thus humble ever.
My husband, then?
Ay, with a heart as willing
As bondage e’er of freedom. Here’s my hand.
Miranda, clasping his hand 
And mine, with my heart in ’t. And now farewell
Till half an hour hence.
A thousand thousand.
 They exit.

Act 3
Scene 1
Line 40

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