Miranda playing at Chess.
Mira.
Sweet lord, you play me false.
Fer.
No, my dear love,
I would not for the world.
Mira.
1 noteYes, for a score of kingdoms you should wrangle,
And I would call it fair play.
Alon.
If this prove
A vision of the island, one dear son
Shall I twice lose.
Seb.
A most high miracle!
Fer.
Though the seas threaten, they are merciful:
I've curs'd them without cause.
Alon.
Now all the blessings
[Ferd. kneels.
Of a glad Father compass thee about!
Arise, and say how thou cam'st here.
Mira.
O! wonder!
How many goodly creatures are there here?
How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world,
That has such people in't!
Pro.
'Tis new to thee.
Alon.
What is this maid, with whom thou wast at play?
Your eld'st acquaintance cannot be three hours:
Is she the goddess that hath sever'd us,
-- 83 --
And brought us thus together?
Fer.
Sir, she's mortal;
But, by immortal providence, she's mine.
I chose her, when I could not ask my father
For his advice: nor thought, I had one: she
Is daughter to this famous Duke of Milan,
Of whom so often I have heard renown,
But never saw before; of whom I have
Receiv'd a second life, and second father
This lady makes him to me.
Alon.
I am hers;
But, oh, how oddly will it sound, that I
Must ask my child forgiveness!
Pro.
There, Sir, stop;
Let us not burthen our remembrance with
An heaviness that's gone.
Gon.
I've inly wept,
Or should have spoke ere this. Look down, you Gods,
And on this couple drop a blessed crown:
For it is you, that have chalk'd forth the way,
Which brought us hither!
Alon.
I say, Amen, Gonzalo!
Gon.
Was Milan thrust from Milan, that his issue
Should become Kings of Naples! O rejoice
Beyond a common joy, and set it down
In gold on lasting pillars! in one voyage
Did Claribel her husband find at Tunis;
And Ferdinand, her brother, found a wife,
Where he himself was lost; Prospero his Dukedom,
In a poor isle; and all of us, ourselves,
When no man was his own.
Alon.
Give me your hands:
Let grief and sorrow still embrace his heart,
That doth not wish you joy!
Gon.
Be't so, Amen!
-- 84 --
Alexander Pope [1747], The works of Shakespear in eight volumes. The Genuine Text (collated with all the former Editions, and then corrected and emended) is here settled: Being restored from the Blunders of the first Editors, and the Interpolations of the two Last: with A Comment and Notes, Critical and Explanatory. By Mr. Pope and Mr. Warburton (Printed for J. and P. Knapton, [and] S. Birt [etc.], London) [word count] [S11301].
