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Monologues for Men


You are three men of sin, whom Destiny,

That hath to instrument this lower world

And what is in’t, the never-surfeited sea

Hath caus’d to belch up you; and on this island

Where man doth not inhabit—you ’mongst men

Being most unfit to live. I have made you mad;

And even with such-like valor men hang and drown

Their proper selves.

Alonso, Sebastian, etc. Draw their swords.

You fools! I and my fellows

Are ministers of Fate. The elements,

Of whom your swords are temper’d, may as well

Wound the loud winds, or with bemock’d-at stabs

Kill the still-closing waters, as diminish

One dowle that’s in my plume. My fellow ministers

Are like invulnerable. If you could hurt,

Your swords are now too massy for your strengths,

And will not be uplifted. But remember

(For that’s my business to you) that you three

From Milan did supplant good Prospero,

Expos’d unto the sea (which hath requit it)

Him, and his innocent child; for which foul deed

The pow’rs, delaying (not forgetting), have

Incens’d the seas and shores—yea, all the creatures,

Against your peace. Thee of thy son, Alonso,

They have bereft; and do pronounce by me

Ling’ring perdition (worse than any death

Can be at once) shall step by step attend

You and your ways, whose wraths to guard you from—

Which here, in this most desolate isle, else falls

Upon your heads—is nothing but heart’s sorrow,

And a clear life ensuing.

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