Scene III

By’r lakin, I can go no further, sir;My old bones ache: here’s a maze trod indeedThrough forth-rights and meanders! By your patience,I needs must rest me.

Old lord, I cannot blame thee,Who am myself attach’d with weariness,To the dulling of my spirits: sit down, and rest.Even here I will put off my hope and keep itNo longer for my flatterer: he is drown’dWhom thus we stray to find, and the sea mocksOur frustrate search on land. Well, let him go.

Aside to Sebastian. I am right glad that he’s so out of hope.Do not, for one repulse, forego the purposeThat you resolved to effect.

Aside to Antonio. The next advantageWill we take throughly.

Aside to Sebastian. Let it be to-night;For, now they are oppress’d with travel, theyWill not, nor cannot, use such vigilanceAs when they are fresh.

A living drollery. Now I will believeThat there are unicorns, that in ArabiaThere is one tree, the phoenix’ throne, one phoenixAt this hour reigning there.

I’ll believe both;And what does else want credit, come to me,And I’ll be sworn ’tis true: travellers ne’er did lie,Though fools at home condemn ’em.

If in NaplesI should report this now, would they believe me?If I should say, I saw such islanders—For, certes, these are people of the island—Who, though they are of monstrous shape, yet, note,Their manners are more gentle-kind than ofOur human generation you shall findMany, nay, almost any.

Aside. Honest lord,Thou hast said well; for some of you there presentAre worse than devils.

I cannot too much museSuch shapes, such gesture and such sound, expressing,Although they want the use of tongue, a kindOf excellent dumb discourse.

No matter, sinceThey have left their viands behind; for we have stomachs.Will’t please you taste of what is here?

Faith, sir, you need not fear. When we were boys,Who would believe that there were mountaineersDew-lapp’d like bulls, whose throats had hanging at ’emWallets of flesh? or that there were such menWhose heads stood in their breasts? which now we findEach putter-out of five for one will bring usGood warrant of.

I will stand to and feed,Although my last: no matter, since I feelThe best is past. Brother, my lord the duke,Stand to and do as we.

You are three men of sin, whom Destiny,That hath to instrument this lower worldAnd what is in’t, the never-surfeited seaHath caused to belch up you; and on this islandWhere man doth not inhabit; you ’mongst menBeing most unfit to live. I have made you mad;And even with such-like valour men hang and drownTheir proper selves. Alonso, Sebastian etc. draw their swords. You fools! I and my fellowsAre ministers of Fate: the elements,Of whom your swords are temper’d, may as wellWound the loud winds, or with bemock’d-at stabsKill the still-closing waters, as diminishOne dowle that’s in my plume: my fellow-ministersAre like invulnerable. If you could hurt,Your swords are now too massy for your strengthsAnd will not be uplifted. But remember—For that’s my business to you—that you threeFrom Milan did supplant good Prospero;Exposed unto the sea, which hath requit it,Him and his innocent child: for which foul deedThe powers, delaying, not forgetting, haveIncensed the seas and shores, yea, all the creatures,Against your peace. Thee of thy son, Alonso,They have bereft; and do pronounce by meLingering perdition, worse than any deathCan be at once, shall step by step attendYou and your ways; whose wraths to guard you from—Which here, in this most desolate isle, else fallsUpon your heads—is nothing but heart-sorrowAnd a clear life ensuing.

Bravely the figure of this harpy hast thouPerform’d, my Ariel; a grace it had, devouring:Of my instruction hast thou nothing batedIn what thou hadst to say: so, with good lifeAnd observation strange, my meaner ministersTheir several kinds have done. My high charms workAnd these mine enemies are all knit upIn their distractions; they now are in my power;And in these fits I leave them, while I visitYoung Ferdinand, whom they suppose is drown’d,And his and mine loved darling. Exit above.

I’ the name of something holy, sir, why stand youIn this strange stare?

O, it is monstrous, monstrous!Methought the billows spoke and told me of it;The winds did sing it to me, and the thunder,That deep and dreadful organ-pipe, pronouncedThe name of Prosper: it did bass my trespass.Therefore my son i’ the ooze is bedded, andI’ll seek him deeper than e’er plummet soundedAnd with him there lie mudded. Exit.

But one fiend at a time,I’ll fight their legions o’er.

All three of them are desperate: their great guilt,Like poison given to work a great time after,Now ’gins to bite the spirits. I do beseech youThat are of suppler joints, follow them swiftlyAnd hinder them from what this ecstasyMay now provoke them to.