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We cannot miss 28 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.

Cal. [Within.]

There's wood enough within.

Pro. Come forth, I say; for thee:

there's other business

Come forth, thou, tortoise! when 29 ?

Re-enter ARIEL, like a Water-nymph.

Fine apparition! My quaint 30 Ariel,
Hark in thine ear.

Ari.

My lord, it shall be done.

[Exit.

Pro. Thou poisonous slave, got by the devil himself Upon thy wicked dam, come forth!

Enter CALIBAN.

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 ye, 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 31 Shall, for that vast 32 of night that they may work, All exercise on thee: thou shalt be pinch'd

28 i. e. we cannot do without him. The phrase is still common in the midland counties.

29 This is a common expression of impatience. Vide note on King Richard II. Act 1. Scene 1.

30 Quaint here means brisk, spruce, dexterous, from the French

cointe.

31 Urchins were fairies of a particular class. Hedgehogs were also called urchins; and it is probable that the sprites were so named, because they were of a mischievous kind, the urchin being anciently deemed a very noxious animal. Shakspeare again mentions these fairy beings in The Merry Wives of Windsor

"Like urchins, ouphes, and fairies green and white." In the phrase still current, "a little urchin," the idea of the fairy still remains,

32 That vast of night is that space of night. So, in Hamlet: "In the dead waist and middle of the night," nox vasta, midnight, when all things are quiet and siill, making the world appear one great uninhabited waste. In the pueumatology of ancient times visionary beings had different allotments of time suitable to the variety and nature of their agency.

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; wouldst 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 shew'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.

Thou most lying slave, Whom stripes may move, not kindness: I have us'd

thee,

Filth as thou art, with human care: and lodg'd thee In mine own cell, till thou didst seek to violate The honour of my child.

Cal. O ho, O ho!-'would it had been done! Thou didst prevent me; I had peopled else This isle with Calibans.

Pro.

Abhorred slave;

Which any print of goodness will not take,
Being capable of all ill! I pitied thee,
Took pains to make thee speak, taught thee each hour
One thing or other; when thou didst not, savage,
Know thine own meaning, but wouldst 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 33 you, For learning me your language!

Pro.

Hag-seed, hence! quick, thou wert best, Shrug'st thou, malice? unwillingly

Fetch us in fuel; and be
To answer other business.
If thou neglect'st, or dost
What I command, I'll rack thee with old cramps;
Fill all thy bones with aches 34; make thee roar,
That beasts shall tremble at thy din!

Cal.

[Aside.

No, 'pray thee!I must obey: his art is of such power, It would control my dam's god, Setebos 35, And make a vassal of him.

Pro.

So, slave; hence!
[Exit CALIBAN.

Re-enter ARIEL invisible, playing and singing; FERDINAND following him.

ARIEL'S SONG.

Come unto these yellow sands,
And then take hands:

Court'sied when you have, and kiss'd,
(The wild waves whist 36)

Foot it featly here and there;

And, sweet sprites, the burden bear.

33 Destroy.

34 The word aches is evidently a dissyllable here and in two passages of Timon of Athens. The reader will remember the senseless clamour that was raised against Kemble for his adherence to the text of Shakspeare in thus pronouncing it as the measure requires. "Ake," says Baret in his Alvearie, "is the verb of this substantive Ache, ch being turned into k." And that ache was pronounced in the same way as the letter h is placed beyond doubt by the passage in Much Ado about Nothing, in which Margaret asks Beatrice for what she cries Heigh ho, and she answers for an h. i. e. ache. See the Epigram of Heywood adduced in illustration of that passage. This orthography and pronunciation continued even to the times of Butler and Swift. It would be easy to produce numerous instances.

35 The giants when they found themselves fettered roared like bulls, and cried upon Setebos to help them."-Eden's Hist. of Travayle, 1577. p. 434,

36 Still, silent.

Hark, hark!

Bur. Bowgh, wowgh.
The watch-dogs bark:
Bur. Bowgh, wowgh.
Hark, hark! I hear

[dispersedly.

[dispersedly.

The strain of strutting chanticlere

Cry, Cock-a-doodle-doo.

Fer. Where should this music be? i' the air, or the earth?

It sounds no more;-and sure, it waits upon
Some god of the island. Sitting on a bank,
Weeping again the king my father's wreck,
This music crept by me upon the waters;
Allaying both their fury, and my passion,
With its sweet air: thence I have follow'd it,
Or it hath drawn me rather:-But 'tis gone.
No, it begins again.

ARIEL sings,

Full fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:

[Burden, ding-dong.

Hark! now I hear them,-ding-dong, bell. Fer. The ditty does remember my drown'd father. This is no mortal business, nor no sound That the earth owes 37:-I hear it now above me. Pro. The fringed curtains of thine eye advance, And say, what thou seest yond'.

-

Mira. What is't? a spirit? Lord, how it looks about! Believe me, sir,

It carries a brave form:-But 'tis a spirit. Pro. No, wench; it eats and sleeps, and hath such senses

37 i. e. owns. To owe was to possess or appertain to, in ancient language.

As we have, such: This gallant, which thou seest,
Was in the wreck; and but he's something stain'd
With grief, that's beauty's canker, thou mightst call
him

A goodly person: he hath lost his fellows,
And strays about to find them.

Mira.
A thing divine; for nothing natural
I ever saw so noble.

Pro.

I might call him

It goes on, I see,

[Aside.

As my soul prompts it:-Spirit, fine Spirit! I'll free

thee

Within two days for this.

Fer. Most sure, the goddess On whom these airs attend!-Vouchsafe, my prayer May know, if you remain upon this island; And that you will some good instruction give, How I may bear me here; My prime request, Which I do last pronounce, is, O you wonder! If you be maid 38, or no? Mira.

But, certainly a maid.

No wonder, sir;

Fer. My language! heavens!I am the best of them that speak this speech, Were I but where 'tis spoken.

Pro. How! the best? What wert thou, if the king of Naples heard thee? Fer. A single thing, as I am now, that wonders To hear thee speak of Naples: he does hear me; And, that he does, I weep: myself am Naples; Who with mine eyes, ne'er since at ebb, beheld The king my father wreck'd.

Mira. Alack, for mercy! Fer. Yes, faith, and all his lords; the duke of Milan, And his brave son, being twain.

38 The folio of 1685 reads made, and many of the modern editors have laboured to persuade themselves that it was the true reading. It has been justly observed by Mr. Mason that the question is "whether our readers will adopt a natural and simple expression, which requires no comment, or one which the ingenuity of many commentators has but imperfectly supported.”

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