Prospero.
Now does my project gather to a head;
My charms crack not; my spirits obey, and ^{4 note}
time

Goes upright with his carriage: how's the day?

Ari.
On the sixth hour, at which time, my lord,
You said, our work should cease.

Pro.
I did say so,
When first I rais'd the tempest; say, my spirit,
How fares the King and 's followers?

Ari.
Confin'd
In the same fashion as you gave in charge;
Just as you left them, all your prisoners, Sir,
In the Lime-Grove which weather-fends your cell.
They cannot budge, 'till your release. The King,
His brother, and yours, abide all three distracted;
And the remainder mourning over them,
Brim-full of sorrow and dismay; but, chiefly,
Him that you term'd the good old lord Gonzalo.
His tears run down his beard, like winter drops
From eaves of reeds; your charm so strongly works 'em,
That if you now beheld them, your affections
Would become tender.

Pro.
Do'st thou think so, spirit?

Ari.
Mine would, Sir, were I human.

Pro.
And mine shall.
Hast thou, which art but air, a touch, a feeling
Of their afflictions, and shall not myself,
One of their kind, that relish all as sharply,
Passion as they, be kindlier mov'd than thou art?
Tho' with their high wrongs I am struck to th' quick,
Yet, with my nobler reason, 'gainst my fury
Do I take part; the rarer action is
In virtue than in vengeance; they being penitent,
The sole drift of my purpose doth extend
Not a frown further; go, release them, Ariel;

My charms I'll break, their senses I'll restore,
And they shall be themselves.

Ari.
I'll fetch them, Sir. [Exit.

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