REMARKS.

This is one of the last plays which Shakspeare wrote.

Dr. Warburton says of it—“This play, and ‘Midsummer Night's Dream,’ are the noblest efforts of that sublime and amazing imagination, peculiar to Shakspeare, which soars above the bounds of nature, without forsaking sense; or, more properly, carries nature along with him, beyond her established limits.”

Shakspeare had now written more than thirty plays, and, like other hackneyed authors, he began to be weary of his employment. But he had a resource in fancy, to which others apply in vain. Tired of the same dull round of forming men and women, he said—“Let there be spirits, fairies, goblins, and monsters.” At his word, these supernatural things had dramatic existence.

But, however the learned may admire the poet's grand conception, and the complete execution of all that they can conceive he meant to do, to make this

play perfection; it would never have become a favourite on the stage, without the aid of Dryden's alteration. The human beings in the original drama had not business enough on the scene, to make human beings anxious about them: and the preternatural characters were more wonderful than pleasing; for, whilst an auditor or a reader pours forth his praise before the Creator of Caliban, he loathes the creature.

Ariel, opposed to this monster, is one of those happy contrasts, which Shakspeare deals in; yet, this airy and mild spirit cannot charm an audience, except by singing. Nor could the love scenes produce much sympathy, but from the artlessness of the objects concerned. Ignorance of what their own sensations mean, is the charm which alone elevates those pleasing characters, above the common order of insipid lovers.

“The Tempest” contains some of the author's best poetry—the noted passage of “cloud-capp'd towers” is here; also some exquisite descriptions of wild rural scenery; and there is a sublimity in the pinches, cramps, and aches, of Caliban; his bogs, fens, flats, moles, barnacles, and apes—as well as in the oaks, rocks, winds, sea, earth, and air, of Prospero.

Dr. Warburton's praises of “The Tempest,” are thus supported by Dr. Johnson's following eulogium:

“In a single drama are here exhibited princes, courtiers, and sailors, all speaking in their real characters. There is the agency of airy spirits, and of an earthly goblin; the operation of magic, the tumults

of a storm, the adventures of a desert island, the native effusion of untaught affection, the punishment of guilt, and the final happiness of the pair, for whom our reason and our passions are equally interested.”

All these things are doubtless comprised in “The Tempest,” except the last implied quality—one, of all others, which an audience can, perhaps, the least dispense with. This drama does not interest the passions. Less variety might have engaged them; but here genius has been too much expanded. Exercised on fewer objects, its force had been concentrated, and more effectual.

The senses are, indeed, powerfully engaged by the grandeur of the spectacle in a London theatre—and the senses highly gratified, are sometimes mistaken, by the possessor himself—for the passions.

Castlist

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

[Fury 1], [Fury 2]

Spirits.

The other Spirits by the general Chorus.

Furies.

Mr. Denman, Mr. Grimaldi, Mr. Lee, Mr. Street, Mr. Treby, and others.

Alonso	Mr. Creswell.
Prospero	Mr. Kemble.
Hippolyto	Miss Logan.
Ferdinand	Mr. C. Kemble.
Antonio	Mr. Chapman.
Gonzalo	Mr. Murray.
Trinculo	Mr. Fawcett.
Stephano	Mr. Munden.
Caliban	Mr. Emery.
Miranda	Miss Brunton.
Dorinda	Mrs. C. Kemble.
Ariel	Miss Meadows.

SCENE—An uninhabited Island.

THE TEMPEST. ACT THE FIRST. SCENE I. The Cell of Prospero. Enter Prospero, meeting Miranda.

Pro.
Miranda, where's your sister?

Mir.
Sir, I saw her
Climbing tow'rds yon high point, whence I am come
From gazing on the ocean:—A brave creature,
(Who has, no doubt, some other creatures in her,)
Toss'd on the waste of waters,—

Pro.
Be collected;
I shall do nothing but in care of thee,
Of thee, my daughter, and thy pretty sister.—
You both are ignorant of what you are,
Nought knowing
Of whence I am; nor that I am more better
Than Prospero, master of a full poor cell,
And your no greater father.

Mir.
More to know
Did never meddle with my thoughts.

Pro.
'Tis time,
I should inform thee further.—Lend thy hand,
And pluck my magic garment from me.—So; [Lays down his Mantle and Wand.
Lie there, my art.—
The fated wreck of that same gallant ship
I shall with such provision in mine art
So safely order,
That not so much perdition as a hair,
Shall 'tide to any creature in the vessel.—
Sit down;
For thou must now know further.

Mir.
You have often
Begun to tell me what I am; but stopp'd,
And left me to a bootless inquisition;
Concluding,—“Stay, not yet.’

Pro.
The hour's now come;
The very minute bids thee ope thine ear;
Obey, and be attentive.— [Miranda sits down.
Canst thou remember
A time before we came unto this cell?
I do not think thou canst; for then thou wast not
Out three years old.

Mir.
Certainly, sir, I can.

Pro.
By what? by any other house, or person?
Of any thing the image tell me, that
Hath kept with thy remembrance.

Mir.
'Tis far off;
And rather like a dream than an assurance
That my remembrance warrants:—Had I not
Four or five women once, that tended me?

Pro.
Thou hadst, and more, Miranda: But how is it,
That this lives in thy mind? What see'st thou else
In the dark backward and abysme of time?
If thou remember'st aught, ere thou cam'st here,
How thou cam'st here, thou may'st.

Mir.
But that I do not.

Pro.
Fifteen years since, my child, but fifteen years,
Thy father was the Duke of Milan, and
A prince of power.

Mir.
Sir, are not you my father?

Pro.
Thy mother was a piece of virtue, and
She said, you were my daughters; and your father
Was Duke of Milan: thou, my girl, his heir,
A princess, no worse issu'd.

Mir.
O the Heavens!
What foul play had we, that we came from thence?
Or blessed was't, we did?

Pro.
Both, both, my girl:
By foul play, as thou say'st, were we heav'd thence;
But blessedly holp hither.

Mir.
O, my heart bleeds
To think o'the teen that I have turn'd you to,
Which is from my remembrance!—Please you, further.

Pro.
My brother, and thy uncle, call'd Antonio,—
I pray thee, mark me,—that a brother should
Be so perfidious!—to him I put
The manage of my government,
And to my state grew stranger, being transported,
And rapt in secret studies. Thy false uncle—
Dost thou attend me?

Mir.
Sir, most heedfully.

Pro.
Being once perfected how to grant suits,
How to deny them, having both the key
Of officer and office, set all hearts
To what tune pleas'd his ear; that now he was
The ivy, which had hid my princely trunk,
And suck'd my verdure out on't.—Thou attend'st not.

Mir.
O, good sir, I do.

Pro.
Being thus lorded,
Not only with what my revenue yielded,

But what my power might else exact,
He needs will be
Absolute Milan: Me, poor man!—my library
Was dukedom large enough: of temporal royalties
He thinks me now incapable: confederates,
So dry he was for sway, with the king of Naples,
To give him annual tribute, do him homage,
Subject his coronet to his crown, and bend
The dukedom, yet unbow'd, (alas, poor Milan!)
To most ignoble stooping:—Whereupon,
A treacherous army levy'd, one mid-night
Fated to the purpose, did Antonio open
The gates of Milan; and, i'the dead of darkness,
The ministers for the purpose hurry'd thence
Me, thy young sister, and thy crying self.

Mir.
Alack, for pity!—

Pro.
Hear a little further,
And then I'll bring thee to the present business
Which now 's upon us; without the which, this story
Were most impertinent.

Mir.
Wherefore did they not
That hour destroy us?

Pro.
Girl, they durst not,
So dear the love my people bore me, set
A mark so bloody on the business; but
With colours, fairer painted their foul ends.
In few, they hurry'd us aboard a bark;
Bore us some leagues to sea: where they prepar'd
A rotten carcase of a boat, not rigg'd,
Nor tackle, sail, nor mast; the very rats
Instinctively had quit it: there they hoist us,
To cry to the sea that roar'd to us; to sigh
To the winds, whose pity, sighing back again,
Did us but loving wrong.

Mir.
Alack! what trouble
Were we then to you!

Pro.
O! two cherubim
Ye were, that did preserve me; ye did smile,

Infused with a fortitude from Heaven;
Which rais'd in me
An undergoing stomach, to bear up
Against what should ensue.

Mir.
How came we ashore?

Pro.
By providence divine.—
Some food we had, and some fresh water, that
A noble Neapolitan, Gonzalo,
Out of his charity, (he being then appointed
Master of this design,) did give us; with
Rich garments, linens, stuffs, and necessaries,
Which since have steaded much: so, of his gentleness,
Knowing I lov'd my books, he furnish'd me,
From my own library, with volumes that
I prize above my dukedom.

Mir.
'Would I might
But ever see that man! [Rises.

Pro.
Mark me,—and hear the last of our sea-sorrow.
Here in this island we arriv'd; and here
Have I, your schoolmaster, made you more profit
Than other princes can, that have more time
For vainer hours, and tutors not so careful.

Mir.
Heavens thank you for't! And now, I pray you, sir,
(For still 'tis beating in my mind,) your reason
For raising this sea-storm?

Pro.
Know thus far forth:—
By accident most strange, bountiful fortune,
Now my dear lady, hath mine enemies
Brought on these seas; and by my prescience
I find my zenith doth depend upon
A most auspicious star; whose influence
If now I court not, but omit, my fortunes
Will ever after droop. [Takes up his Wand, and charms Miranda to Sleep.

Here cease more questions; [Miranda sinks into her Seat.
Thou art inclin'd to sleep; 'tis a good dulness,
And give it way:—I know, thou canst not chuse.— [Miranda sleeps.—Prospero puts on his Mantle.
Come away, servant, come: I am ready now;
Approach, my Ariel; come. Enter Ariel.

Ari.
All hail, great master! grave sir, hail! I come
To answer thy best pleasure; be't to fly,
To swim, to dive into the sea, to ride
On the curl'd clouds; to thy strong bidding, task
Ariel, and all his quality.

Pro.
Hast thou, spirit,
Prepar'd to point the Tempest that I bade thee?

Ari.
To every article.

Pro.
What is the time o'the day?

Ari.
Past the mid season.

Pro.
At least two glasses: The time 'twixt six and now,
Must by us both be spent most preciously.

Ari.
Is there more toil? Since thou dost give me pains,
Let me remember thee what thou hast promis'd,
Which is not yet perform'd me.

Pro.
How now,—moody?
What is't thou canst demand?

Ari.
My liberty.

Pro.
Before the time be out! no more.

Ari.
I pray thee:
Remember, I have done thee worthy service;
Told thee no lies, made no mistakings, serv'd
Without or grudge, or grumblings: thou didst promise
To bate me a full year.

Pro.
Dost thou forget
From what a torment I did free thee?

Ari.
No.

Pro.
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'the earth,
When it is bak'd with frost.

Ari.
I do not, sir.

Pro.
Thou ly'st, malignant thing! Hast thou forgot
The foul witch Sycorax, who, with age, and envy,
Was grown into a hoop? hast thou forgot her?

Ari.
No, sir.

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

Ari.
Sir, in Argier.

Pro.
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?

Ari.
Ay, sir.

Pro.
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, was then her servant:
And, for thou wast a spirit too delicate
To act her earthly, 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 freckled whelp, hag-born,) not honour'd with
A human shape.

Ari.
Yes: Caliban her son.

Pro.
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.

Ari.
I thank thee master.

Pro.
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 more.

Ari.
Pardon, master:
I will be correspondent to command,
And do my spiriting gently.

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

Ari.
That's my noble master!
What shall I do? say, what? what shall I do?

Pro.
Go, with the spirits under thy command,
Let loose the Tempest, as I bade thee: then
Disperse the stranded crew about the isle,
And bring the king's son, Ferdinand, to my cell.—
Be subject to no sight but mine; invisible
To every eyeball else.

Ari.
Master, I shall.
SONG BY ARIEL.
O, bid thy faithful Ariel fly
To the furthest India's sky

Or, to do thy great command,
Traverse o'er more distant land;
I'll climb the mountains, plunge the deep,—
I, like mortals, never sleep,—
I'll do thy task, whate'er it be,
Not with ill will, but merrily. [Exit.

Pro.
Awake; dear heart, awake! thou hast slept well:
Awake!

Mir.
The strangeness of your story put
Heaviness in me.

Pro.
Shake it off; come on; [Miranda rises.
We'll visit Caliban, my slave, who never
Yields us kind answer.

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

Pro.
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 without.

Cal.
There's wood enough within.

Pro.
Come forth, I say; there's other business for thee;
Come forth, thou tortoise! when?
Thou poisonous slave, got by the devil himself,
Upon thy wicked dam, come forth! Enter Caliban, from his Den. [Exit Miranda.

Cal.
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 you,
And blister you all o'er!

Pro.
For this, be sure, to-night thou shalt have cramps,

Side stitches that shall pen thy breath up; urchins
Shall, for that vast of night that they may work,
All exercise on thee; thou shalt be pinch'd
As thick as honey-combs; each pinch more stinging
Than bees that made them.

Cal.
I must eat my dinner.
This island's mine, by Sycorax my mother,
Which thou tak'st from me. When thou camest first,
Thou strok'dst me and mad'st much of me; would'st 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' the isle,
The fresh springs, brine-pits, barren place, and fertile;
Cursed 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 of the island.

Pro.
Most abhorred slave,
Which any print of goodness wilt not take,
Being capable of all ill, I have us'd thee,
Filth as thou art, with human care:—I pitied thee,
Took pains to make thee speak, taught thee each hour
One thing or other: when thou didst not, savage,
Know thy own meaning, but would'st gabble like
A thing most brutish, I endow'd thy purposes
With words that made them known: but thy vile race,
Though thou didst learn, had that in't which good natures
Could not abide to be with; therefore wast thou
Deservedly confin'd into this rock,

Who hadst deserv'd more than a prison.

Cal.
You taught me language; and my profit on't
Is, I know how to curse; The red plague rid you,
For learning me your language!

Pro.
Hag-seed, hence!
Fetch us in fuel; and be quick, thou wert best,
To answer other business.—Shrug'st thou, malice?
If thou neglect'st, or dost unwillingly
What I command, I'll rack thee with old cramps;
Fill all thy bones with aches; make thee roar,
That beasts shall tremble at thy din.

Cal.
No, 'pray thee!
I must obey: his art is of such power,
It would controll my dam's god Setebos,
And make a vassal of him.

Pro.
So, slave; hence! [Exeunt. SCENE II. The Foot of a Promontory. Enter Miranda, meeting Dorinda.

Dor.
O, sister, sister,—what have I beheld!

Mir.
What is it moves you so?

Dor.
From yonder rock,
As I mine eyes cast down upon the sea,
The whistling winds blew rudely in my face,
And the waves roar'd;—at first, I thought the war
Had been between themselves; but straight I spy'd
A strange huge creature,—

Mir.
O, you mean the ship.

Dor.
Is't not a creature then? It seem'd alive.

Mir.
Well,—but, what of it?

Dor.
This floating ram did bear his horns aloft
All ty'd with ribands ruffling in the wind;
Sometimes he nodded down his head awhile,
And then the waves did heave him to the moon.

Mir.
But, sister, I have stranger news to tell you:—
In this great creature there are other creatures,
And shortly we may chance to see that thing
Which you have heard my father call—a man.

Dor.
But what is that? for yet he never told me.

Mir.
I know no more than you; but I have heard
My father say, we women were made for him.

Dor.
Made for him? What, that he should eat us, sister?

Mir.
No, sure; you see my father is a man,
And yet he does us good.

Dor.
Methinks, it would
Be finer, sister, if we had two young fathers.

Mir.
No, sister, no; because, if they were young,
My father said that we must call them—brothers.

Dor.
How comes it, then, that we two are not brothers?
And how came he to be our father too?

Mir.
I believe, he found us, when we both were little,
And grew within the ground.

Dor.
Why did'nt he find more of us? 'Pray, dear sister
Let you and me look up and down one day,
To find some little ones for us to play with.

Mir.
Agreed.—But now we must go in; this is
The hour wherein my father's charm will work,
Which seizes all that are in open air.
The effect of his great art I long to see,
Which will perform as much as magic can.

Dor.
And I, methinks more long to see a man. [Exeunt.

ACT THE SECOND. SCENE I. The Sea.—A Ship in a Tempest. Ariel firing the Ship. Spirits of the Winds dancing.
Chorus by Spirits of the Storm.
Arise, ye terrors of the storm,
  Appall the guilty eye!
Tear the wild waves, ye mighty winds,
  Ye blasting lightnings, fly!
Dart thro' the Tempest of the deep,
  And rocks and seas confound! [Loud Thunder.
Hark, how the vengeful thunders roll!
  Amazement flames around.
Behold,—the fate-devoted bark
  Dash'd on the trembling shore!
Mercy!—the sinking wretches cry,—
  Mercy!—they're heard no more. [The Ship seems to founder.—Ariel and all the other Spirits disappear.

SCENE II. The Cave of Hippolyto. Enter Prospero.

Pro.
'Tis not yet fit, I let my daughters know
That I have rear'd the princely heir of Mantua,
As I have them, from childhood in this isle.
His father, dying, bequeath'd him to my care,
That I should breed him equal to his birth.
O, thou false brother! was it not enough
To usurp my state, but that thou must betray
My pupil's dukedom to the Neapolitan,
And doom him to the fate design'd for me!—
By calculation of his birth, I saw
Death threatening him, if, till some time were pass'd,
He should behold the face of any woman;
And now the danger's nigh.—Hippolyto!—
Approach, young man; come forth:—Hippolyto!— Enter Hippolyto.

Hip.
Sir, I attend your pleasure.

Pro.
How I have lov'd thee from thy infancy,
Heaven knows, and thou thyself canst bear me witness;
Therefore accuse me not for thy restraint.

Hip.
I murmur not; but I may wonder at it.

Pro.
O, gentle youth, fate waits for thee abroad,
A black star threatens thee, and death unseen
Stands ready to devour thee.

Hip.
Sir, I have often heard you say, no creature
Liv'd in this isle, but those which man was lord of:—
Why then should I fear?

Pro.
But here are creatures which I nam'd not to thee;

Those dangerous enemies of men, call'd women.

Hip.
Women!—I never heard of them before.
What are women like?

Pro.
Imagine something 'tween young men and angels,
Fatally beauteous, and with killing eyes:
Their voices charm beyond the nightingale's;
They are all enchantment; those, who once behold them,
Are made their slaves for ever:—
Therefore, if you should chance to see them,—mark me,—
Avoid them straight, I charge you.

Hip.
Well, since you say they are so dangerous,
I'll so far shun them, as I may with safety
Of the unblemish'd honour which you taught me:
But let them not provoke me; for, I'm sure,
I shall not then forbear them.

Pro.
Go in, and read the book I gave you last.

Hip.
I shall obey you, sir. [Exeunt. SCENE III. A Valley in the Island. Enter Prospero.

Pro.
So, so; I hope this lesson has secur'd him;
For I have been constrain'd to change his lodging
From the rude rock where I have bred him up,
And bring him to the neighbourhood of my cell,
Because the shipwreck happen'd near his mansion.—
How, my daughters!—
I thought I had instructed them enough.—

Enter Miranda and Dorinda.
Children, retire:—Why do you walk this way?

Mir.
It is within our bounds, sir.

Pro.
But both take heed, that path is very dangerous:
Remember what I told you.

Dor.
Is the man that way, sir?

Pro.
All, that you can imagine ill, is there:
The curled lion, and the rugged bear,
Are not so dreadful as that savage man.

Dor.
But I would stroke him, father,
And make him gentle, then he would not hurt me.

Pro.
You must not trust him, child.—But I must in;
For now my operant spells require my presence.—
Be you, Miranda, guardian to your sister. [Exit Prospero.

Dor.
Come, sister, let us walk the other way,
The man will catch us else; we've but two legs,
And he, perhaps, has four.

Mir.
Well, sister, though he have, yet look about you,
And we shall spy him, ere he come too near us.

Dor.
Come back, come back; that way is tow'rd his den.

Mir.
Let me alone: I'll venture first; for sure
He can devour but one of us at once.—
I will go softly:—if you see him first,
Be sure, you call me to take care of you. [Exit Miranda.

Dor.
Nay, I confess, I would fain see him too:
I find a longing in my very nature,
Because my father has forbidden me. [Exit Dorinda.

SCENE IV. The Cave of Hippolyto. Enter Hippolyto, reading.

Hip.
Prospero has often said that nature makes
Nothing in vain: why then are women made?
I'll ask that question, when I see him next. Enter Dorinda and Miranda, from behind.

Dor.
O, sister, there it is:—it walks about
Like one of us.

Mir.
Ay, just so,—and has legs as we have too.

Hip.
It strangely puzzles me: yet, 'tis most likely,
Women are somewhat between men and spirits.

Mir.
Hark, hark! it talks. Why, sure this is not it
My father meant:—'tis just like one of us.

Dor.
I am not half so much afraid on't as
I was:—see, see, it turns this way.—
Heav'n! what a pretty thing it is!

Mir.
I'll go nearer it.

Dor.
O no; 'tis dangerous, sister: I'll go to it.

Mir.
I would not for the world that you should venture;
My father charg'd me to secure you from it.

Dor.
I warrant you, this is a tame man, sister:
He will not hurt me; I see it by his looks.

Pro. [Without.]
What ho! what ho!—Miranda, child, where are you?

Mir.
Do you not hear my father call? go in.

Dor.
'Twas you he call'd, not me.—Make haste, make hase:—
You would not let my father wait, I hope.

Pro. [Without.]
Miranda, child,—

Mir.
Come, sister, come with me. [Exit Miranda.

Dor.
Though I die for't, I must have t'other peep.

Hip. [Turns, and sees her.]
What thing is that?
Sure 'tis some favourite infant of the sun.
My sight is dazzled.—I'll go nearer to it.—
May it not be that beauteous murderer, woman,
Whom I was charg'd to shun? Speak, speak,—what art thou,
Shining vision?

Dor.
Alas, I know not; but, I'm told, I am
A woman.—Do not hurt me, 'pray, fair thing.

Hip.
Won't you hurt me, fair thing? for, I was told,
A woman was my enemy.

Dor.
I never knew
What 'twas to be an enemy; nor can
I e'er prove so to that, which looks like you:
Although I fear you are a man, that lion,
That dangerous thing, of which I have been warn'd.
'Pray, tell me what you are.

Hip.
In truth, I was inform'd I am a man;
But, if I fright you, I shall wish I were
Some other creature.

Dor.
No, you do not fright me.

Pro. [Without.]
Dorinda!

Dor.
My father calls again. Ah! I must leave you.

Hip.
Alas, I'm subject to the same command.

Dor.
This is my first offence against my father,
Which severing us too cruelly does punish.

Hip.
And this is my first trespass too; but he
Hath more offended truth than we have him:
He said, our meeting would destructive be;
Yet I no death but in our parting see. [Exeunt.

SCENE V. A naked Part of the Island. Thunder, Wind, Rain. Enter Caliban, bearing a Bundle of Wood.

Cal.
All the infections that the sun sucks up
From bogs, fens, flats, on Prosper fall, and make him
By inchmeal a disease! [Throws off his Load.
His spirits hear me,
And yet I needs must curse. But they'll nor pinch,
Fright me with urchin shows, pitch me i'the mire,
Nor lead me, like a firebrand, in the dark
Out of my way, unless he bid them; but
For every trifle they are set upon me;
Sometime like apes, that mow and chatter at me,
And after, bite me; then like hedge-hogs, which
Lie tumbling in my bare-foot way, and mount
Their pricks at my foot-fall; sometime am I
All wound with adders, who, with cloven tongues,
Do hiss me into madness. [Wind and Rain.

Trinculo. [Without.]
O, O, O,—

Cal.
Lo, now! lo!
Here comes a spirit of his; and to torment me,
For bringing wood in slowly: I'll fall flat;
Perchance he will not mind me. [Lies down. Enter Trinculo.

Trin.

Here's neither bush nor shrub, to bear off any weather at all, and another storm brewing; I hear it sing i'the wind: if it should thunder, as it did before, I know not where to hide my head: yond'

same cloud cannot chuse 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, and fish-like smell; a kind of, not the newest, poor John.— A strange fish! Legg'd 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 has lately suffered by a thunderbolt.— [Wind and Rain.]—Alas! the storm is come again: my best way is to creep under his gaberdine; there is no other shelter hereabout: misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows: I will here shroud, till the dregs of the storm be past.