The Tempest Scenes
Before Prospero’s cell.
(Ferdinand; Miranda; Prospero)
Ferdinand is stacking wood at Prospero’s orders, though since Miranda is nearby and clearly pities him he does not mind the labor overmuch. Miranda comes in and tries to comfort or help him, unaware that Prospero is watching them. He refuses to let her help, but they chat, Miranda giving away her name despite Prospero’s admonitions. They soon admit that they are head over heels in love with each other, which delights the unseen Prospero. ( line)
Enter Ferdinand bearing a log.
There be some sports are painful, and their labor
Delight in them sets off; some kinds of baseness
Are nobly undergone; and most poor matters
Point to rich ends. This my mean task
Would be as heavy to me as odious, but
The mistress which I serve quickens what’s dead,
And makes my labors pleasures. O, she is
Ten times more gentle than her father’s crabbed;
And he’s compos’d of harshness. I must remove
Some thousands of these logs, and pile them up,
Upon a sore injunction. My sweet mistress
Weeps when she sees me work, and says such baseness
Had never like executor. I forget;
But these sweet thoughts do even refresh my labors,
Most busil’est when I do it.
Enter Miranda, and Prospero at a distance, unseen.
Alas, now pray you
Work not so hard. I would the lightning had
Burnt up those logs that you are enjoin’d to pile!
Pray set it down, and rest you. When this burns,
’Twill weep for having wearied you. My father
Is hard at study; pray now rest yourself,
He’s safe for these three hours.
O most dear mistress,
The sun will set before I shall discharge
What I must strive to do.
If you’ll sit down,
I’ll bear your logs the while. Pray give me that,
I’ll carry it to the pile.
No, precious creature,
I had rather crack my sinews, break my back,
Than you should such dishonor undergo,
While I sit lazy by.
It would become me
As well as it does you; and I should do it
With much more ease, for my good will is to it,
And yours it is against.
Poor worm, thou art infected!
This visitation shows it.
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?
Miranda.—O my father,
I have broke your hest to say so.
Indeed the top of admiration! Worth
What’s dearest to the world! Full many a lady
I have ey’d 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 lik’d several women, never any
With so full soul but some defect in her
Did quarrel with the noblest grace she ow’d,
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.
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.
And mine, with my heart in’t. And now farewell
Till half an hour hence.
A thousand, thousand!
Exeunt Ferdinand and Miranda severally.
So glad of this as they I cannot be,
Who are surpris’d withal; but my rejoicing
At nothing can be more. I’ll to my book,
For yet ere supper-time must I perform
Much business appertaining.