(Which I dispers’d) they all haue met againe,
And arc vpon the Mediterranian Flote
Bound sadly home for Naples,
Supposing that they saw the Kings ship wrackt,
And his great person peri/h.
Arid) thy charge
Exactly is perform’d; but there’s more worke:
What is the time o’th’day?
Past the mid season.
At least two Glasses: the time’twixt six & now
Must by vs both be spent most preciously.
Is there more toyle? Since ÿ dost giue me pains,
Let me remember thee what thou hast promis’d,
Which is not yet perform’d me.
How now? moodie?
What is’t thou canst demand?
Before the time be out? no more:
Remember I haue done thee worthy seruice,
Told thee no lyes, made thee no mistakings, serv’d
Without or grudge, or grumblings; thou did promise
To bate me a full yeere.
Do’st thou forget
From what a torment I did free thee?
Thou do’st: & thinkst it much to tread y Ooze
Of the salt deepe;
To run vpon the sharpe winde of the North,
To doe me businesse in the veines o’th’earth
When it is bak’d with frost.
I doe not Sir.
Thou liest, malignant Thing: hast thou forgot
The fowle Witch Sycorax, who with Age and Enuy
Was growne into a hoope? hast thou forgot her?
Thou hast: where was she born? speak: tell me:
Sir, in Argier,
Oh, was she so: I must
Once in a moneth recount what thou hast bin,
Which thou forgetst. This damn’d Witch Sycorax
For mischiefes manifold, and sorceries terrible
To enter humane hearing, from Argier
Thou know’st was banish’d: for one thing she did
They wold not take her life: Is not this true?
Ar. I, Sir.
This blew ey’d hag, was hither brought with
And here was left by th’Saylors; thou my flaue, (child,
As thou reportst thy seise, was then her seruant,
And for thou wast a Spirit too delicate
To act her earthy, and abhord commands,
Refusing her grand hefts, she did confine thee
By helpe of her more potent Ministers,
And in her most vnmittigable rage,
Into a clouen Pyne, within which rift
Imprison’d, thou didst painefully remaine
A dozen yeeres: within which space she di’d,
And left thee there: where thou didst vent thy groanes
As fast as Mill-wheeles strike:
Then was this Island (Saue for the Son, that he did littour heere,
A frekelld whelpe, hag-borne) not honour’d with
A humane shape.
Yes: Caliban her sonne.
Dull thing, I say so: he, that Caliban
Whom now I keepe in seruice, thou best know’st
What torment I did finde thee in; thy groncs
Did make wolues howle, and penetrate the breasts
Of euer-angry Beares; it was a torment
To lay vpon the damn’d, which Sycorax
Could not againe vndoe: it was mine Art,
When I arriu’d, and heard thee, that made gape
The Pyne, and let thee out.
I thanke thee Master.
If thou more murmur’st, I will rend an Oake
And peg-thee in his knotty entrailes, till
Thou hast howl’d away twelue winters.
I will be correspondent to command
And doe my spryting, gently.
Doe so: and after two daies
I will discharge thee.
That’s my noble Master:
What shall I doe? say what? what shall I doe?
Goe make thy seise like a Nymph o’th’Sea,
Be subiect to no fight but thine, and mine: inuisible
To euery eye-ball else: goe take this shape
And hither come in’t: goe: hence
Come thou Tortoys, when?
Awake, deere hart awake, thou hast slept well,
The strangenes of your story, put
Heauinesse in me.
Shake it off: Come on,
Wee’ll visit Caliban, my slaue, who neuer
Yeelds vs kinde answere.
’Tis a villaine Sir, I doe not loue to looke on.
We cannot misse him: he do’s make our fire,
Fetch in our wood, and ferves in Offices
That profit vs: What hoa: flaue: Caliban:
Thou Earth, thou: speake.
There’s wood enough within.
Come forth I fay, there’s other busines for thee:
Fine apparision: my queint Ariel,
Hearke in thine eare.
Vpon thy wicked Dam; come forth.
Thou poysonous slaue, got by ÿ diuell himselfe
As wicked dewe, as ere my mother brush’d
With Rauens feather from vnwholesome Fen
Drop on you both: A Southwest blow on yee,
And blister you all ore.
For this be sure, to night thou shalt haue cramps,
Side-stitches, that shall pen thy breath vp, Vrchins
Shall for that vast of night, that they may worke
All exercise on thee: thou shalt be pinch’d
As thicke as hony-combe, each pinch more stinging
Then Bees that made’em.
I must eat my dinner:
This Island’s mine by Sycorax my mother,
Which thou tak’st from me: when thou cam’st first
Thou stroakst me, & made much of me: wouldst giue me
Water with berries in’t: and teach me how
To name the bigger Light, and how the lesse
That burne by day, and night: and then I lou’d thee
And shew’d thee all the qualities o’th’Isle,
The fresh Springs, Brine-pits; barren place and fertill,
Curs’d be I that did so: All the Charmes
Of Sycorax: Toades, Beetles, Batts light on you:
For I am all the Subjects that you haue,
Which first was min owne King: and here you sty-me
In this hard Rocke, whiles you doe keepe from me
The rest o’th’Island.