PROSPERO.
THE fringed curtains of thine eyes advance,
And see what is yonder.

MIRANDA.
Is't a spirit?
Believe me, Sir, it carries a brave form;
But 'tis a spirit.

PROSPERO.
No; it eats, and sleeps,
And hath such senses as we, were he not
Somewhat stain'd with grief (beauties worst canker)
Thou might'st then call him a goodly person.

MIRANDA.
I might call him a thing divine;
Nothing natural I ever saw so noble.

AIR. FERDINAND.
What sudden blaze of majesty,
  What awful innocence of mein,
Is that which I from hence descry?
  Like nature's universal queen.
Sure the goddess, on whom these airs attend,
Such beauty cannot belong to human kind.

MIRANDA.
I am like you a mortal, if such you are.

FERDINAND.
My language too! Oh heav'ns! I am the best
Of them, who speak this language, were I but
In my own country. O! if a virgin,
And your affections not gone forth, I'll make you
Queen of Naples.

PROSPERO sings.
In tender sighs he silence breaks,
  The fair his flame approves,
Consenting blushes warm her cheeks,
  She smiles, she yields, she loves.
Young Sir, a word; thou dost here usurp
The name thou ow'st not, and hast put thyself

Upon this island, as a spy to win it
From me, the Lord on't.

FERDINAND.
No, as I am a man.

MIRANDA.
There's nothing ill can dwell in such a temple.

PROSPERO.
Speak not you for him; he's a traitor. Come,
I'll manacle thy neck and feet together;
Sea-water shalt thou drink; thy food shall be
The fresh-brook muscles, wither'd roots, and husks
Wherein the acorn's cradled.—Follow.

FERDINAND.
No:
I will resist such entertainment, till
Mine enemy has more pow'r. [He draws, and is charm'd from moving.

MIRANDA.
O! dear father,
Make not too rash a trial of him; for
He's gentle, and not fearful.
AIR.
  Sweetness, truth, and ev'ry grace,
Which time and use are wont to teach,
The eye may in a moment reach,
  And read distinctly in his face.

FERDINAND.
My spirits, as in a dream, are all bound up:
My father's loss, the weakness which I feel,
The wreck of all my friends, and this man's threats,
To whom I am subdu'd, are but light to me,
Might I but thro' my prison, once a day,
Behold this maid! all corners else o'th'earth,
Let liberty make use of—space enough
Have I, in such a prison.

PROSPERO.
Hang not on my garment.

MIRANDA.
Have pity, sir.

PROSPERO.
Speak not for him. Follow me, sir:
This door shews you to your lodgings. [Exeunt.

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