Fer.
There be some Sports are painful, and their Labour
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 Labours 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 Labours,
Most busie least, when I do it. Enter Miranda, and Prospero at a Distance unseen.

Mira.
Alas, now pray you,
Work not so hard; I would the Lightning had
Burnt up those Logs that thou art enjoyn'd to pile:
Pray set it down, and rest you; when this burns
'Twill weep for having weary'd you; my Father
Is hard at Study, pray now rest your self,
He's safe for these three Hours.

Fer.
O most dear Mistress,
The Sun will set before I shall discharge
What I must strive to do.

Mira.
If you'll sit down,
I'll bear your Logs the while. Pray give me that,
I'll carry it to the Pile.

Fer.
No, precious Creature,
I had rather crack my Sinews, break my Back,
Than you should such Dishonor undergo,
While I sit lazy by.

Mira.
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.

Pro.
Poor Worm, thou art infected,
This Visitation shews it.

Mira.
You look wearily.

Fer.
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?

Mira.
Miranda. O my Father,
I have broke your Hest to say so.

Fer.
Admir'd Miranda,
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 Creatures best.

Mira.
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 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 your self, to like of; but I prattle
Something too wildly, and my Father's Precepts
I therein do forget.

Fer.
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-flie 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.

Mira.
Do you love me!

Fer.
O Heav'n, 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 boaded me, to Mischief; I,
Beyond all limit of what else i'th' World,
Do love, prize, honour you.

Mira.
I am a Fool
To weep at what I am glad of.

Pro.
Fair Encounter

Of two most rare Affections! Heav'ns rain Grace
On that which breeds between 'em.

Fer.
Wherefore weep you?

Mira.
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 it self,
The bigger Bulk it shews. Hence bashful Cunning,
And prompt me plain and holy Innocence.
I am your Wife, if you will marry me;
If not, I'll dye your Maid: To be your Fellow
You may deny me; but I'll be your Servant,
Whether you will or no.

Fer.
My Mistress, dearest,
And I thus humble ever.

Mira.
My Husband then?

Fer.
Ay, with a Heart so willing
As Bondage e'er of Freedom; here's my Hand.

Mira.
And mine, with my Heart in't; and now farewel
'Till half an Hour hence.

Fer.
A thousand, thousand. [Exeunt.

Pro.
So glad of this as they I cannot be,
Who are surpriz'd with all; but my rejoycing
At nothing can be more. I'll to my Book,
For yet e'er Supper-time must I perform
Much Business appertaining. [Exit.

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