The Tempest

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PROSPERO. Thou dost; and think'st it much to tread the ooze Of the salt deep, To run upon the sharp wind of the north, To do me business in the veins o' th' earth When it is bak'd with frost.

ARIEL. I do not, sir.

PROSPERO. Thou liest, malignant thing! Hast thou forgot The foul witch Sycorax, who with age and envy Was grown into a hoop? Hast thou forgot her?

ARIEL. No, sir.

PROSPERO. Thou hast. Where was she born? Speak; tell me.

ARIEL. Sir, in Argier.

PROSPERO. O! was she so? I must Once in a month recount what thou hast been, Which thou forget'st. This damn'd witch Sycorax, For mischiefs manifold, and sorceries terrible To enter human hearing, from Argier, Thou know'st,was banish'd: for one thing she did They would not take her life. Is not this true?

ARIEL. Ay, sir.

PROSPERO. This blue-ey'd hag was hither brought with child, And here was left by the sailors. Thou, my slave, As thou report'st thyself, wast then her servant: And, for thou wast a spirit too delicate To act her earthy and abhorr'd commands, Refusing her grand hests, she did confine thee, By help of her more potent ministers, And in her most unmitigable rage, Into a cloven pine; within which rift Imprison'd, thou didst painfully remain A dozen years; within which space she died, And left thee there, where thou didst vent thy groans As fast as mill-wheels strike. Then was this island-- Save for the son that she did litter here, A freckl'd whelp, hag-born--not honour'd with A human shape.

ARIEL. Yes; Caliban her son.

PROSPERO. Dull thing, I say so; he, that Caliban, Whom now I keep in service. Thou best know'st What torment I did find thee in; thy groans Did make wolves howl, and penetrate the breasts Of ever-angry bears: it was a torment To lay upon the damn'd, which Sycorax Could not again undo; it was mine art, When I arriv'd and heard thee, that made gape The pine, and let thee out.

ARIEL. I thank thee, master.

PROSPERO. If thou more murmur'st, I will rend an oak And peg thee in his knotty entrails till Thou hast howl'd away twelve winters.

ARIEL. Pardon, master: I will be correspondent to command, And do my spriting gently.

PROSPERO. Do so; and after two days I will discharge thee.

ARIEL. That's my noble master! What shall I do? Say what? What shall I do?

PROSPERO. Go make thyself like a nymph o' th' sea: be subject To no sight but thine and mine; invisible To every eyeball else. Go, take this shape, And hither come in 't: go, hence with diligence!

[Exit ARIEL]

Awake, dear heart, awake! thou hast slept well; Awake!

MIRANDA. [Waking] The strangeness of your story put Heaviness in me.

PROSPERO. Shake it off. Come on; We'll visit Caliban my slave, who never Yields us kind answer.

MIRANDA. 'Tis a villain, sir, I do not love to look on.

PROSPERO. But as 'tis, We cannot miss him: he does make our fire, Fetch in our wood; and serves in offices That profit us.--What ho! slave! Caliban! Thou earth, thou! Speak.

CALIBAN. [Within] There's wood enough within.

PROSPERO. Come forth, I say; there's other business for thee: Come, thou tortoise! when?

[Re-enter ARIEL like a water-nymph.]

Fine apparition! My quaint Ariel, Hark in thine ear.

ARIEL. My lord, it shall be done.


PROSPERO. Thou poisonous slave, got by the devil himself Upon thy wicked dam, come forth!


CALIBAN. As wicked dew as e'er my mother brush'd With raven's feather from unwholesome fen Drop on you both! A south-west blow on ye, And blister you all o'er!

PROSPERO. For this, be sure, to-night thou shalt have cramps, Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up; urchins Shall forth at vast of night that they may work All exercise on thee: thou shalt be pinch'd As thick as honeycomb, each pinch more stinging Than bees that made them.

CALIBAN. 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 strok'st me and made much of me; wouldst give me Water with berries in't; and teach me how To name the bigger light, and how the less, That burn by day and night: and then I lov'd thee, And show'd thee all the qualities o' th' isle, The fresh springs, brine-pits, barren place, and fertile. Curs'd be I that did so! All the charms Of Sycorax, toads, beetles, bats, light on you! For I am all the subjects that you have, Which first was mine own king; and here you sty me In this hard rock, whiles you do keep from me The rest o' th' island.

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