The Tempest Page #3

This is the second man that e'er I saw,

the first that e'er I sigh'd for

They are both in either's powers

but this swift business

I must uneasy make

lest too light winning make the prize light

One word more

I charge thee that thou attend me

Thou dost here usurp

the name thou ow'st not

and hast put thyself

upon this island as a spy

to win it from me, the sovereign on't

No, as I am a man

There's nothing ill can dwell in

such a temple

Follow me. Speak not you for him:

He's a traitor

Come! I'll manacle thy neck

and feet together

sea-water shalt

thou drink. Follow!

No. I will resist such entertainment

till mine enemy has more pow'r

O dear mother, make not too rash a trial

of him, for he's gentle and not fearful

What, I say, my foot my tutor?

Put thy sword up, traitor

For I can here disarm thee with this

stick and make thy weapon drop

- Beseech you, mother

- Hence! Hang not on my garments

Ma'am, have pity. I'll be his surety

Silence! One word more shall make

me chide thee, if not hate thee

Thou think'st there is no more

such shapes as he

having seen but him and Caliban

Foolish child!

To th' most of men this is a Caliban

and they to him are angels

My affections are then most humble

I have no ambition to see a goodlier man

Come on, obey!

Thy nerves are in their infancy

again and have no vigour in them

So they are

My spirits, as in a dream,

are all bound up

My father's loss, the weakness

which I feel

the wreck of all my friends, nor this

dame's threats, to whom I am subdued

are but light to me

might I but through my prison

once a day behold this maid

All corners else o' the earth

let liberty make use of

Space enough have I in such a prison

It works

Come on

Thou hast done well, fine Ariel!

Hark what thou else shalt do me

Be of comfort. My mother's of a better

nature, sir, than she appears by speech

Thou shalt be free as mountain winds

then exactly do all points

of my command

To th' syllable

Come, follow. Speak not for him

Beseech you, sir, be merry

you have cause, so have we all, of joy

for our escape is much beyond our loss

But for the miracle,

I mean our preservation

few in millions can speak like us

Then wisely, good sir, weigh our

sorrow with our comfort

- Prithee, peace

- He receives comfort like cold porridge

Look he's winding up the watch of

his wit:
By and by it will strike

- Sir

- One... Tell

When every grief is entertain'd

that's offer'd

- comes to the entertainer

- A dollar

Dolour comes to him, indeed. You have

spoken truer than you purposed

You have taken it wiselier

than I meant you should

Therefore, my lord...

Fie, what a spendthrift is he

of his tongue!

- I prithee, spare

- Well...

I have done

- But yet...

- He will be talking!

Though this island seem to be desert

- Uninhabitable and almost inaccessible

- Yet...

- Yet

- He could not miss't

The air breathes upon us here

most sweetly

As if it had lungs, and rotten ones

Or as 'twere perfumed by a fen

Here is everything advantageous to life

True:
Save means to live

Of that there's none, or little

How lush and lusty the grass

looks! How green!

The ground indeed is tawny

With an eye of green in't

But the rarity of it is, which is

indeed almost beyond credit

that our garments, being,

as they were, drenched in the sea

are now as fresh as when

we put them on first in Afric

In Tunis

At the marriage of your fair daughter

Claribel to the King of Tunis

You cram these words into mine ears

against the stomach of my sense

Would I had never married my daughter

there! For, coming thence, my son is lost

and, in my rate, she too

who is so far from Italy removed

I ne'er again shall see her

O thou mine heir of Naples and of Milan

what strange fish hath made

his meal on thee

Sir, he may live

I saw him beat the surges under him,

and ride upon their backs

- I not doubt he came alive to land

- No, no, he's gone

Sir, you may thank yourself

for this great loss

that would not bless our Europe

with your daughter

but rather lose her to an African

Prithee, peace

We have lost your son, I fear, for ever

The fault's your own

So is the dear'st o' the loss

My lord Sebastian, the truth you

speak doth lack some gentlenes

You rub the sore, when you should

bring the plaster

- Very well

- And most like a surgeon

It is foul weather in us all, good

sir, when you are cloudy

Foul weather?

Very foul

Prospera! Prospera!

All the infections that the sun

sucks up from bogs, fens, flats

on Prospera fall and make her by

inchmeal a disease!

Her spirits hear me

And yet I needs must curse

But for every trifle are they set upon me

sometime like apes

that mow

and chatter at me and after bite me

then like hedgehogs which lie

tumbling in my barefoot way

and mount their pricks at my footfall

Sometime... am I all wound...

with adders who with cloven tongues

do hiss me into madness!

Lo! Here comes a spirit of hers

and to torment me for bringing

wood in slowly

I'll fall flat. Perchance he will

not mind me

Here's neither bush nor shrub,

to bear off any weather at all

and another storm brewing

I hear it sing i' the wind

Yond same black cloud, yond huge one

looks like a foul bombard that

would shed his liquor

If it should thunder as it did before

I know not where to hide my head

Yond same cloud cannot choose

but fall by pailfuls

What have we here?

A man or a fish?

Dead or alive?

A fish! He smells like a fish

a very ancient fishlike smell

A strange fish!

Were I in England now, as once I was

and had but this fish painted

not a holiday fool there

but would give a piece of silver

There would this monster make a man

any strange beast there makes a man

When they will not give a penny

to relieve a lame beggar

they will lay out ten to see

a dead Indian

Legged...

like a man...

and his fins like arms!

Warm o' my troth!

I do now let loose my opinion,

hold it no longer

This is no fish

but an islander, that hath lately

suffered by a thunderbolt

Alas, the storm is come again!

My best way is to creep

under his gaberdine

there is no other shelter hereabouts

Misery acquaints a man with

strange bedfellows

Do not torment me! O!

The master, the swabber,

the boatswain and I

the gunner and his mate

loved Mall, Meg and Marian

and Margery

but none of us cared for Kate

for she had a tongue with a tang

would cry to a sailor, Go hang!

She loved not the savour

of tar nor of pitch

yet...

yet a tailor might scratch her

where'er she did itch

then to sea, boys, and let her go hang!

Then to sea, boys, and let her

This is a very scurvy tune to sing

at a mans funeral

Well, here's my comfort

What's the matter?

Have we devils here?

Do you put tricks upon's with

savages and men of Inde, ha?

I have not scaped drowning to be

afeard now of your four legs

The spirit torments me. O!

This is some monster of the isle

with four legs

who hath got, as I take it, an ague

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