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-{"validation": "Not in my house, Lucentio; for, you know, Pitchers have ears, and I have many servants\nBesides, old Gremio is hearkening still; And happily we might be interrupted.\nThen at my lodging, an it like you\nThere doth my father lie; and there, this night, We'll pass the business privately and well. Send for your daughter by your servant here\nMy boy shall fetch the scrivener presently. The worst is this, that, at so slender warning, You are like to have a thin and slender pittance.\nIt likes me well. Biondello, hie you home, And bid Bianca make her ready straight; And, if you will, tell what hath happened, Lucentio's father is arrived in Padua, And how she's like to be Lucentio's wife.\nI pray the gods she may with all my heart!\nDally not with the gods, but get thee gone. Signior Baptista, shall I lead the way? Welcome! one mess is like to be your cheer\nCome, sir; we will better it in Pisa.\nI follow you.\nCambio!\nWhat sayest thou, Biondello?\nYou saw my master wink and laugh upon you?\nBiondello, what of that?\nFaith, nothing; but has left me here behind, to expound the meaning or moral of his signs and tokens.\nI pray thee, moralize them.\nThen thus. Baptista is safe, talking with the deceiving father of a deceitful son.\nAnd what of him?\nHis daughter is to be brought by you to the supper.\nAnd then?\nThe old priest of Saint Luke's church is at your command at all hours.\nAnd what of all this?\nI cannot tell; expect they are busied about a counterfeit assurance: take you assurance of her, 'cum privilegio ad imprimendum solum:' to the church; take the priest, clerk, and some sufficient honest witnesses: If this be not that you look for, I have no more to say, But bid Bianca farewell for ever and a day.\nHearest thou, Biondello?\nI cannot tarry: I knew a wench married in an afternoon as she went to the garden for parsley to stuff a rabbit; and so may you, sir: and so, adieu, sir. My master hath appointed me to go to Saint Luke's, to bid the priest be ready to come against you come with your appendix.\nI may, and will, if she be so contented\nShe will be pleased; then wherefore should I doubt? Hap what hap may, I'll roundly go about her\nIt shall go hard if Cambio go without her.\nCome on, i' God's name; once more toward our father's. Good Lord, how bright and goodly shines the moon!\nThe moon! the sun: it is not moonlight now.\nI say it is the moon that shines so bright.\nI know it is the sun that shines so bright.\nNow, by my mother's son, and that's myself, It shall be moon, or star, or what I list, Or ere I journey to your father's house. Go on, and fetch our horses back again. Evermore cross'd and cross'd; nothing but cross'd!\nSay as he says, or we shall never go.\nForward, I pray, since we have come so far, And be it moon, or sun, or what you please\nAn if you please to call it a rush-candle, Henceforth I vow it shall be so for me.\nI say it is the moon.\nI know it is the moon.\nNay, then you lie: it is the blessed sun.\nThen, God be bless'd, it is the blessed sun\nBut sun it is not, when you say it is not; And the moon changes even as your mind. What you will have it named, even that it is; And so it shall be so for Katharina.\nPetruchio, go thy ways; the field is won.\nWell, forward, forward! thus the bowl should run, And not unluckily against the bias. But, soft! company is coming here. Good morrow, gentle mistress: where away? Tell me, sweet Kate, and tell me truly too, Hast thou beheld a fresher gentlewoman? Such war of white and red within her cheeks! What stars do spangle heaven with such beauty, As those two eyes become that heavenly face? Fair lovely maid, once more good day to thee. Sweet Kate, embrace her for her beauty's sake.\nA' will make the man mad, to make a woman of him.\nYoung budding virgin, fair and fresh and sweet, Whither away, or where is thy abode? Happy the parents of so fair a child; Happier the man, whom favourable stars Allot thee for his lovely bed-fellow!\nWhy, how now, Kate! I hope thou art not mad\nThis is a man, old, wrinkled, faded, wither'd, And not a maiden, as thou say'st he is.\nPardon, old father, my mistaking eyes, That have been so bedazzled with the sun That everything I look on seemeth green\nNow I perceive thou art a reverend father; Pardon, I pray thee, for my mad mistaking.\nDo, good old grandsire; and withal make known Which way thou travellest: if along with us, We shall be joyful of thy company.\nFair sir, and you my merry mistress, That with your strange encounter much amazed me, My name is call'd Vincentio; my dwelling Pisa; And bound I am to Padua; there to visit A son of mine, which long I have not seen.\nWhat is his name?\nLucentio, gentle sir.\nHappily we met; the happier for thy son. And now by law, as well as reverend age, I may entitle thee my loving father\nThe sister to my wife, this gentlewoman, Thy son by this hath married. Wonder not, Nor be grieved: she is of good esteem, Her dowery wealthy, and of worthy birth; Beside, so qualified as may beseem The spouse of any noble gentleman. Let me embrace with old Vincentio, And wander we to see thy honest son, Who will of thy arrival be full joyous.\nBut is it true? or else is it your pleasure, Like pleasant travellers, to break a jest Upon the company you overtake?\nI do assure thee, father, so it is.\nCome, go along, and see the truth hereof; For our first merriment hath made thee jealous.\nWell, Petruchio, this has put me in heart. Have to my widow! and if she be froward, Then hast thou taught Hortensio to be untoward.\nSoftly and swiftly, sir; for the priest is ready.\nI fly, Biondello: but they may chance to need thee at home; therefore leave us.\nNay, faith, I'll see the church o' your back; and then come back to my master's as soon as I can.\nI marvel Cambio comes not all this while.\nSir, here's the door, this is Lucentio's house\nMy father's bears more toward the market-place; Thither must I, and here I leave you, sir.\nYou shall not choose but drink before you go\nI think I shall command your welcome here, And, by all likelihood, some cheer is toward.\nThey're busy within; you were best knock louder.\nWhat's he that knocks as he would beat down the gate?\nIs Signior Lucentio within, sir?\nHe's within, sir, but not to be spoken withal.\nWhat if a man bring him a hundred pound or two, to make merry withal?\nKeep your hundred pounds to yourself: he shall need none, so long as I live.\nNay, I told you your son was well beloved in Padua. Do you hear, sir? To leave frivolous circumstances, I pray you, tell Signior Lucentio that his father is come from Pisa, and is here at the door to speak with him.\nThou liest: his father is come from Padua and here looking out at the window.\nArt thou his father?\nAy, sir; so his mother says, if I may believe her.\nLay hands on the villain: I believe a' means to cozen somebody in this city under my countenance.\nI have seen them in the church together: God send 'em good shipping! But who is here? mine old master Vincentio! now we are undone and brought to nothing.\nHope I may choose, sir.\nCome hither, you rogue. What, have you forgot me?\nForgot you! no, sir: I could not forget you, for I never saw you before in all my life.\nWhat, you notorious villain, didst thou never see thy master's father, Vincentio?\nWhat, my old worshipful old master? yes, marry, sir\nsee where he looks out of the window.\nIs't so, indeed.\nHelp, help, help! here's a madman will murder me.\nHelp, son! help, Signior Baptista!\nPrithee, Kate, let's stand aside and see the end of this controversy.\nSir, what are you that offer to beat my servant?\nWhat am I, sir! nay, what are you, sir? O immortal gods! O fine villain! A silken doublet! a velvet hose! a scarlet cloak! and a copatain hat! O, I am undone! I am undone! while I play the good husband at home, my son and my servant spend all at the university.\nHow now! what's the matter?\nWhat, is the man lunatic?\nSir, you seem a sober ancient gentleman by your habit, but your words show you a madman. Why, sir, what 'cerns it you if I wear pearl and gold? I thank my good father, I am able to maintain it.\nThy father! O villain! he is a sailmaker in Bergamo.\nYou mistake, sir, you mistake, sir. Pray, what do you think is his name?\nHis name! as if I knew not his name: I have brought him up ever since he was three years old, and his name is Tranio.\nAway, away, mad ass! his name is Lucentio and he is mine only son, and heir to the lands of me, Signior Vincentio.\nLucentio! O, he hath murdered his master! Lay hold on him, I charge you, in the duke's name. O, my son, my son! Tell me, thou villain, where is my son Lucentio?\nCall forth an officer. Carry this mad knave to the gaol. Father Baptista, I charge you see that he be forthcoming.\nCarry me to the gaol!\nStay, officer: he shall not go to prison.\nTalk not, Signior Gremio: I say he shall go to prison.\nTake heed, Signior Baptista, lest you be cony-catched in this business: I dare swear this is the right Vincentio.\nSwear, if thou darest.\nNay, I dare not swear it.\nThen thou wert best say that I am not Lucentio.\nYes, I know thee to be Signior Lucentio.\nAway with the dotard! to the gaol with him!\nThus strangers may be hailed and abused: O monstrous villain!\nO! we are spoiled and--yonder he is: deny him, forswear him, or else we are all undone.\nLives my sweet son?\nPardon, dear father.\nHow hast thou offended? Where is Lucentio?\nHere's Lucentio, Right son to the right Vincentio; That have by marriage made thy daughter mine, While counterfeit supposes bleared thine eyne.\nHere's packing, with a witness to deceive us all!\nWhere is that damned villain Tranio, That faced and braved me in this matter so?\nWhy, tell me, is not this my Cambio?\nCambio is changed into Lucentio.\nLove wrought these miracles. Bianca's love Made me exchange my state with Tranio, While he did bear my countenance in the town; And happily I have arrived at the last Unto the wished haven of my bliss. What Tranio did, myself enforced him to; Then pardon him, sweet father, for my sake.\nI'll slit the villain's nose, that would have sent me to the gaol.\nBut do you hear, sir? have you married my daughter without asking my good will?\nFear not, Baptista; we will content you, go to: but I will in, to be revenged for this villany.\nAnd I, to sound the depth of this knavery.\nLook not pale, Bianca; thy father will not frown.\nMy cake is dough; but I'll in among the rest, Out of hope of all, but my share of the feast.\nHusband, let's follow, to see the end of this ado.\nFirst kiss me, Kate, and we will.\nWhat, in the midst of the street?\nWhat, art thou ashamed of me?\nNo, sir, God forbid; but ashamed to kiss.\nWhy, then let's home again. Come, sirrah, let's away.\nNay, I will give thee a kiss: now pray thee, love, stay.\nIs not this well? Come, my sweet Kate\nBetter once than never, for never too late.\nAt last, though long, our jarring notes agree\nAnd time it is, when raging war is done, To smile at scapes and perils overblown. My fair Bianca, bid my father welcome, While I with self-same kindness welcome thine. Brother Petruchio, sister Katharina, And thou, Hortensio, with thy loving widow, Feast with the best, and welcome to my house\nMy banquet is to close our stomachs up, After our great good cheer. Pray you, sit down; For now we sit to chat as well as eat.\nNothing but sit and sit, and eat and eat!\nPadua affords this kindness, son Petruchio.\nPadua affords nothing but what is kind.\nFor both our sakes, I would that word were true.\nNow, for my life, Hortensio fears his widow.\nThen never trust me, if I be afeard.\nYou are very sensible, and yet you miss my sense\nI mean, Hortensio is afeard of you.\nHe that is giddy thinks the world turns round.\nRoundly replied.\nMistress, how mean you that?\nThus I conceive by him.\nConceives by me! How likes Hortensio that?\nMy widow says, thus she conceives her tale.\nVery well mended. Kiss him for that, good widow.\n'He that is giddy thinks the world turns round:' I pray you, tell me what you meant by that.\nYour husband, being troubled with a shrew, Measures my husband's sorrow by his woe\nAnd now you know my meaning,\nA very mean meaning.\nRight, I mean you.\nAnd I am mean indeed, respecting you.\nTo her, Kate!\nTo her, widow!\nA hundred marks, my Kate does put her down.\nThat's my office.\nSpoke like an officer; ha' to thee, lad!\nHow likes Gremio these quick-witted folks?\nBelieve me, sir, they butt together well.\nHead, and butt! an hasty-witted body Would say your head and butt were head and horn.\nAy, mistress bride, hath that awaken'd you?\nAy, but not frighted me; therefore I'll sleep again.\nNay, that you shall not: since you have begun, Have at you for a bitter jest or two!\nAm I your bird? I mean to shift my bush; And then pursue me as you draw your bow. You are welcome all.\nShe hath prevented me. Here, Signior Tranio. This bird you aim'd at, though you hit her not; Therefore a health to all that shot and miss'd.\nO, sir, Lucentio slipp'd me like his greyhound, Which runs himself and catches for his master.\nA good swift simile, but something currish.\n'Tis well, sir, that you hunted for yourself\n'Tis thought your deer does hold you at a bay.\nO ho, Petruchio! Tranio hits you now.\nI thank thee for that gird, good Tranio.\nConfess, confess, hath he not hit you here?\nA' has a little gall'd me, I confess; And, as the jest did glance away from me, 'Tis ten to one it maim'd you two outright.\nNow, in good sadness, son Petruchio, I think thou hast the veriest shrew of all.\nWell, I say no: and therefore for assurance Let's each one send unto his wife; And he whose wife is most obedient To come at first when he doth send for her, Shall win the wager which we will propose.\nContent. What is the wager?\nTwenty crowns.\nTwenty crowns! I'll venture so much of my hawk or hound, But twenty times so much upon my wife.\nA hundred then.\nContent.\nA match! 'tis done.\nWho shall begin?\nThat will I. Go, Biondello, bid your mistress come to me.\nI go.\nSon, I'll be your half, Bianca comes.\nI'll have no halves; I'll bear it all myself. How now! what news?\nSir, my mistress sends you word That she is busy and she cannot come.\nHow! she is busy and she cannot come! Is that an answer?\nAy, and a kind one too\nPray God, sir, your wife send you not a worse.\nI hope better.\nSirrah Biondello, go and entreat my wife To come to me forthwith.\nO, ho! entreat her! Nay, then she must needs come.\nI am afraid, sir, Do what you can, yours will not be entreated. Now, where's my wife?\nShe says you have some goodly jest in hand\nShe will not come: she bids you come to her.\nWorse and worse; she will not come! O vile, Intolerable, not to be endured! Sirrah Grumio, go to your mistress; Say, I command her to come to me.\nI know her answer.\nWhat?\nShe will not.\nThe fouler fortune mine, and there an end.\nNow, by my holidame, here comes Katharina!\nWhat is your will, sir, that you send for me?\nWhere is your sister, and Hortensio's wife?\nThey sit conferring by the parlor fire.\nGo fetch them hither: if they deny to come. Swinge me them soundly forth unto their husbands\nAway, I say, and bring them hither straight.\nHere is a wonder, if you talk of a wonder.\nAnd so it is: I wonder what it bodes.\nMarry, peace it bodes, and love and quiet life, And awful rule and right supremacy; And, to be short, what not, that's sweet and happy?\nNow, fair befal thee, good Petruchio! The wager thou hast won; and I will add Unto their losses twenty thousand crowns; Another dowry to another daughter, For she is changed, as she had never been.\nNay, I will win my wager better yet And show more sign of her obedience, Her new-built virtue and obedience. See where she comes and brings your froward wives As prisoners to her womanly persuasion. Katharina, that cap of yours becomes you not\nOff with that bauble, throw it under-foot.\nLord, let me never have a cause to sigh, Till I be brought to such a silly pass!\nFie! what a foolish duty call you this?\nI would your duty were as foolish too\nThe wisdom of your duty, fair Bianca, Hath cost me an hundred crowns since supper-time.\nThe more fool you, for laying on my duty.\nKatharina, I charge thee, tell these headstrong women What duty they do owe their lords and husbands.\nCome, come, you're mocking: we will have no telling.\nCome on, I say; and first begin with her.\nShe shall not.\nI say she shall: and first begin with her.\nFie, fie! unknit that threatening unkind brow, And dart not scornful glances from those eyes, To wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor\nIt blots thy beauty as frosts do bite the meads, Confounds thy fame as whirlwinds shake fair buds, And in no sense is meet or amiable. A woman moved is like a fountain troubled, Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty; And while it is so, none so dry or thirsty Will deign to sip or touch one drop of it. Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper, Thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee, And for thy maintenance commits his body To painful labour both by sea and land, To watch the night in storms, the day in cold, Whilst thou liest warm at home, secure and safe; And craves no other tribute at thy hands But love, fair looks and true obedience; Too little payment for so great a debt. Such duty as the subject owes the prince Even such a woman oweth to her husband; And when she is froward, peevish, sullen, sour, And not obedient to his honest will, What is she but a foul contending rebel And graceless traitor to her loving lord? I am ashamed that women are so simple To offer war where they should kneel for peace; Or seek for rule, supremacy and sway, When they are bound to serve, love and obey. Why are our bodies soft and weak and smooth, Unapt to toil and trouble in the world, But that our soft conditions and our hearts Should well agree with our external parts? Come, come, you froward and unable worms! My mind hath been as big as one of yours, My heart as great, my reason haply more, To bandy word for word and frown for frown; But now I see our lances are but straws, Our strength as weak, our weakness past compare, That seeming to be most which we indeed least are. Then vail your stomachs, for it is no boot, And place your hands below your husband's foot\nIn token of which duty, if he please, My hand is ready; may it do him ease.\nWhy, there's a wench! Come on, and kiss me, Kate.\nWell, go thy ways, old lad; for thou shalt ha't.\n'Tis a good hearing when children are toward.\nBut a harsh hearing when women are froward.\nCome, Kate, we'll to bed. We three are married, but you two are sped. 'Twas I won the wager, though you hit the white; And, being a winner, God give you good night!\nNow, go thy ways; thou hast tamed a curst shrew.\n'Tis a wonder, by your leave, she will be tamed so.\nBoatswain!\nHere, master: what cheer?\nGood, speak to the mariners: fall to't, yarely, or we run ourselves aground: bestir, bestir.\nHeigh, my hearts! cheerly, cheerly, my hearts! yare, yare! Take in the topsail. Tend to the master's whistle. Blow, till thou burst thy wind, if room enough!\nGood boatswain, have care. Where's the master? Play the men.\nI pray now, keep below.\nWhere is the master, boatswain?\nDo you not hear him? You mar our labour: keep your cabins: you do assist the storm.\nNay, good, be patient.\nWhen the sea is. Hence! What cares these roarers for the name of king? To cabin: silence! trouble us not.\nGood, yet remember whom thou hast aboard.\nNone that I more love than myself. You are a counsellor; if you can command these elements to silence, and work the peace of the present, we will not hand a rope more; use your authority: if you cannot, give thanks you have lived so long, and make yourself ready in your cabin for the mischance of the hour, if it so hap. Cheerly, good hearts! Out of our way, I say.\nI have great comfort from this fellow: methinks he hath no drowning mark upon him; his complexion is perfect gallows. Stand fast, good Fate, to his hanging: make the rope of his destiny our cable, for our own doth little advantage. If he be not born to be hanged, our case is miserable.\nDown with the topmast! yare! lower, lower! Bring her to try with main-course. A plague upon this howling! they are louder than the weather or our office. Yet again! what do you here? Shall we give o'er and drown? Have you a mind to sink?\nA pox o' your throat, you bawling, blasphemous, incharitable dog!\nWork you then.\nHang, cur! hang, you whoreson, insolent noisemaker! We are less afraid to be drowned than thou art.\nI'll warrant him for drowning; though the ship were no stronger than a nutshell and as leaky as an unstanched wench.\nLay her a-hold, a-hold! set her two courses off to sea again; lay her off.\nAll lost! to prayers, to prayers! all lost!\nWhat, must our mouths be cold?\nThe king and prince at prayers! let's assist them, For our case is as theirs.\nI'm out of patience.\nWe are merely cheated of our lives by drunkards\nThis wide-chapp'd rascal--would thou mightst lie drowning The washing of ten tides!\nHe'll be hang'd yet, Though every drop of water swear against it And gape at widest to glut him.\nLet's all sink with the king.\nLet's take leave of him.\nNow would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground, long heath, brown furze, any thing. The wills above be done! but I would fain die a dry death.\nIf by your art, my dearest father, you have Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them. The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch, But that the sea, mounting to the welkin's cheek, Dashes the fire out. O, I have suffered With those that I saw suffer: a brave vessel, Who had, no doubt, some noble creature in her, Dash'd all to pieces. O, the cry did knock Against my very heart. Poor souls, they perish'd. Had I been any god of power, I would Have sunk the sea within the earth or ere It should the good ship so have swallow'd and The fraughting souls within her.\nBe collected\nNo more amazement: tell your piteous heart There's no harm done.\nO, woe the day!\nNo harm. I have done nothing but in care of thee, Of thee, my dear one, thee, my daughter, who Art ignorant of what thou art, nought knowing Of whence I am, nor that I am more better Than Prospero, master of a full poor cell, And thy no greater father.\nMore to know Did never meddle with my thoughts.\n'Tis time I should inform thee farther. Lend thy hand, And pluck my magic garment from me. So\nLie there, my art. Wipe thou thine eyes; have comfort. The direful spectacle of the wreck, which touch'd The very virtue of compassion in thee, I have with such provision in mine art So safely ordered that there is no soul-- No, not so much perdition as an hair Betid to any creature in the vessel Which thou heard'st cry, which thou saw'st sink. Sit down; For thou must now know farther.\nYou have often Begun to tell me what I am, but stopp'd And left me to a bootless inquisition, Concluding 'Stay: not yet.'\nThe hour's now come; The very minute bids thee ope thine ear; Obey and be attentive. Canst thou remember A time before we came unto this cell? I do not think thou canst, for then thou wast not Out three years old.\nCertainly, sir, I can.\nBy what? by any other house or person? Of any thing the image tell me that Hath kept with thy remembrance.\n'Tis far off And rather like a dream than an assurance That my remembrance warrants. Had I not Four or five women once that tended me?\nThou hadst, and more, Miranda. But how is it That this lives in thy mind? What seest thou else In the dark backward and abysm of time? If thou remember'st aught ere thou camest here, How thou camest here thou mayst.\nBut that I do not.\nTwelve year since, Miranda, twelve year since, Thy father was the Duke of Milan and A prince of power.\nSir, are not you my father?\nThy mother was a piece of virtue, and She said thou wast my daughter; and thy father Was Duke of Milan; and thou his only heir And princess no worse issued.\nO the heavens! What foul play had we, that we came from thence? Or blessed was't we did?\nBoth, both, my girl\nBy foul play, as thou say'st, were we heaved thence, But blessedly holp hither.\nO, my heart bleeds To think o' the teen that I have turn'd you to, Which is from my remembrance! Please you, farther.\nMy brother and thy uncle, call'd Antonio-- I pray thee, mark me--that a brother should Be so perfidious!--he whom next thyself Of all the world I loved and to him put The manage of my state; as at that time Through all the signories it was the first And Prospero the prime duke, being so reputed In dignity, and for the liberal arts Without a parallel; those being all my study, The government I cast upon my brother And to my state grew stranger, being transported And rapt in secret studies. Thy false uncle-- Dost thou attend me?\nSir, most heedfully.\nBeing once perfected how to grant suits, How to deny them, who to advance and who To trash for over-topping, new created The creatures that were mine, I say, or changed 'em, Or else new form'd 'em; having both the key Of officer and office, set all hearts i' the state To what tune pleased his ear; that now he was The ivy which had hid my princely trunk, And suck'd my verdure out on't. Thou attend'st not.\nO, good sir, I do.\nI pray thee, mark me. I, thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated To closeness and the bettering of my mind With that which, but by being so retired, O'er-prized all popular rate, in my false brother Awaked an evil nature; and my trust, Like a good parent, did beget of him A falsehood in its contrary as great As my trust was; which had indeed no limit, A confidence sans bound. He being thus lorded, Not only with what my revenue yielded, But what my power might else exact, like one Who having into truth, by telling of it, Made such a sinner of his memory, To credit his own lie, he did believe He was indeed the duke; out o' the substitution And executing the outward face of royalty, With all prerogative: hence his ambition growing-- Dost thou hear?\nYour tale, sir, would cure deafness.\nTo have no screen between this part he play'd And him he play'd it for, he needs will be Absolute Milan. Me, poor man, my library Was dukedom large enough: of temporal royalties He thinks me now incapable; confederates-- So dry he was for sway--wi' the King of Naples To give him annual tribute, do him homage, Subject his coronet to his crown and bend The dukedom yet unbow'd--alas, poor Milan!-- To most ignoble stooping.\nO the heavens!\nMark his condition and the event; then tell me If this might be a brother.\nI should sin To think but nobly of my grandmother\nGood wombs have borne bad sons.\nNow the condition. The King of Naples, being an enemy To me inveterate, hearkens my brother's suit; Which was, that he, in lieu o' the premises Of homage and I know not how much tribute, Should presently extirpate me and mine Out of the dukedom and confer fair Milan With all the honours on my brother: whereon, A treacherous army levied, one midnight Fated to the purpose did Antonio open The gates of Milan, and, i' the dead of darkness, The ministers for the purpose hurried thence Me and thy crying self.\nAlack, for pity! I, not remembering how I cried out then, Will cry it o'er again: it is a hint That wrings mine eyes to't.\nHear a little further And then I'll bring thee to the present business Which now's upon's; without the which this story Were most impertinent.\nWherefore did they not That hour destroy us?\nWell demanded, wench\nMy tale provokes that question. Dear, they durst not, So dear the love my people bore me, nor set A mark so bloody on the business, but With colours fairer painted their foul ends. In few, they hurried us aboard a bark, Bore us some leagues to sea; where they prepared A rotten carcass of a boat, not rigg'd, Nor tackle, sail, nor mast; the very rats Instinctively had quit it: there they hoist us, To cry to the sea that roar'd to us, to sigh To the winds whose pity, sighing back again, Did us but loving wrong.\nAlack, what trouble Was I then to you!\nO, a cherubim Thou wast that did preserve me. Thou didst smile. Infused with a fortitude from heaven, When I have deck'd the sea with drops full salt, Under my burthen groan'd; which raised in me An undergoing stomach, to bear up Against what should ensue.\nHow came we ashore?\nBy Providence divine. Some food we had and some fresh water that A noble Neapolitan, Gonzalo, Out of his charity, being then appointed Master of this design, did give us, with Rich garments, linens, stuffs and necessaries, Which since have steaded much; so, of his gentleness, Knowing I loved my books, he furnish'd me From mine own library with volumes that I prize above my dukedom.\nWould I might But ever see that man!\nNow I arise\nSit still, and hear the last of our sea-sorrow. Here in this island we arrived; and here Have I, thy schoolmaster, made thee more profit Than other princesses can that have more time For vainer hours and tutors not so careful.\nHeavens thank you for't! And now, I pray you, sir, For still 'tis beating in my mind, your reason For raising this sea-storm?\nKnow thus far forth. By accident most strange, bountiful Fortune, Now my dear lady, hath mine enemies Brought to this shore; and by my prescience I find my zenith doth depend upon A most auspicious star, whose influence If now I court not but omit, my fortunes Will ever after droop. Here cease more questions\nThou art inclined to sleep; 'tis a good dulness, And give it way: I know thou canst not choose. Come away, servant, come. I am ready now. Approach, my Ariel, come.\nAll hail, great master! grave sir, hail! I come To answer thy best pleasure; be't to fly, To swim, to dive into the fire, to ride On the curl'd clouds, to thy strong bidding task Ariel and all his quality.\nHast thou, spirit, Perform'd to point the tempest that I bade thee?\nTo every article. I boarded the king's ship; now on the beak, Now in the waist, the deck, in every cabin, I flamed amazement: sometime I'ld divide, And burn in many places; on the topmast, The yards and bowsprit, would I flame distinctly, Then meet and join. Jove's lightnings, the precursors O' the dreadful thunder-claps, more momentary And sight-outrunning were not; the fire and cracks Of sulphurous roaring the most mighty Neptune Seem to besiege and make his bold waves tremble, Yea, his dread trident shake.\nMy brave spirit! Who was so firm, so constant, that this coil Would not infect his reason?\nNot a soul But felt a fever of the mad and play'd Some tricks of desperation. All but mariners Plunged in the foaming brine and quit the vessel, Then all afire with me: the king's son, Ferdinand, With hair up-staring,--then like reeds, not hair,-- Was the first man that leap'd; cried, 'Hell is empty And all the devils are here.'\nWhy that's my spirit! But was not this nigh shore?\nClose by, my master.\nBut are they, Ariel, safe?\nNot a hair perish'd; On their sustaining garments not a blemish, But fresher than before: and, as thou badest me, In troops I have dispersed them 'bout the isle. The king's son have I landed by himself; Whom I left cooling of the air with sighs In an odd angle of the isle and sitting, His arms in this sad knot.\nOf the king's ship The mariners say how thou hast disposed And all the rest o' the fleet.\nSafely in harbour Is the king's ship; in the deep nook, where once Thou call'dst me up at midnight to fetch dew From the still-vex'd Bermoothes, there she's hid\nThe mariners all under hatches stow'd; Who, with a charm join'd to their suffer'd labour, I have left asleep; and for the rest o' the fleet Which I dispersed, they all have met again And are upon the Mediterranean flote, Bound sadly home for Naples, Supposing that they saw the king's ship wreck'd And his great person perish.\nAriel, thy charge Exactly is perform'd: but there's more work. What is the time o' the day?\nPast the mid season.\nAt least two glasses. The time 'twixt six and now Must by us both be spent most preciously.\nIs there more toil? Since thou dost give me pains, Let me remember thee what thou hast promised, Which is not yet perform'd me.\nHow now? moody? What is't thou canst demand?\nMy liberty.\nBefore the time be out? no more!\nI prithee, Remember I have done thee worthy service; Told thee no lies, made thee no mistakings, served Without or grudge or grumblings: thou didst promise To bate me a full year.\nDost thou forget From what a torment I did free thee?\nNo.\nThou dost, and think'st it much to tread the ooze Of the salt deep, To run upon the sharp wind of the north, To do me business in the veins o' the earth When it is baked with frost.\nI do not, sir.\nThou liest, malignant thing! Hast thou forgot The foul witch Sycorax, who with age and envy Was grown into a hoop? hast thou forgot her?\nNo, sir.\nThou hast. Where was she born? speak; tell me.\nSir, in Argier.\nO, was she so? I must Once in a month recount what thou hast been, Which thou forget'st. This damn'd witch Sycorax, For mischiefs manifold and sorceries terrible To enter human hearing, from Argier, Thou know'st, was banish'd: for one thing she did They would not take her life. Is not this true?\nAy, sir.\nThis blue-eyed hag was hither brought with child And here was left by the sailors. Thou, my slave, As thou report'st thyself, wast then her servant; And, for thou wast a spirit too delicate To act her earthy and abhorr'd commands, Refusing her grand hests, she did confine thee, By help of her more potent ministers And in her most unmitigable rage, Into a cloven pine; within which rift Imprison'd thou didst painfully remain A dozen years; within which space she died And left thee there; where thou didst vent thy groans As fast as mill-wheels strike. Then was this island-- Save for the son that she did litter here, A freckled whelp hag-born--not honour'd with A human shape.\nYes, Caliban her son.\nDull thing, I say so; he, that Caliban Whom now I keep in service. Thou best know'st What torment I did find thee in; thy groans Did make wolves howl and penetrate the breasts Of ever angry bears: it was a torment To lay upon the damn'd, which Sycorax Could not again undo: it was mine art, When I arrived and heard thee, that made gape The pine and let thee out.\nI thank thee, master.\nIf thou more murmur'st, I will rend an oak And peg thee in his knotty entrails till Thou hast howl'd away twelve winters.\nPardon, master; I will be correspondent to command And do my spiriting gently.\nDo so, and after two days I will discharge thee.\nThat's my noble master! What shall I do? say what; what shall I do?\nGo make thyself like a nymph o' the sea: be subject To no sight but thine and mine, invisible To every eyeball else. Go take this shape And hither come in't: go, hence with diligence! Awake, dear heart, awake! thou hast slept well; Awake!\nThe strangeness of your story put Heaviness in me.\nShake it off. Come on; We'll visit Caliban my slave, who never Yields us kind answer.\n'Tis a villain, sir, I do not love to look on.\nBut, as 'tis, We cannot miss 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.\nCome forth, I say! there's other business for thee\nCome, thou tortoise! when? Fine apparition! My quaint Ariel, Hark in thine ear.\nMy lord it shall be done.\nThou poisonous slave, got by the devil himself Upon thy wicked dam, come forth!\nAs 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!\nFor this, be sure, to-night thou shalt have cramps, Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up; urchins Shall, for that vast of night that they may work, All exercise on thee; thou shalt be pinch'd As thick as honeycomb, each pinch more stinging Than bees that made 'em.\nI must eat my dinner. This island's mine, by Sycorax my mother, Which thou takest from me. When thou camest first, Thou strokedst me and madest 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 loved thee And show'd thee all the qualities o' the isle, The fresh springs, brine-pits, barren place and fertile\nCursed 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 o' the island.\nThou most lying slave, Whom stripes may move, not kindness! I have used thee, Filth as thou art, with human care, and lodged thee In mine own cell, till thou didst seek to violate The honour of my child.\nO ho, O ho! would't had been done! Thou didst prevent me; I had peopled else This isle with Calibans.\nAbhorred slave, Which any print of goodness wilt 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 confined into this rock, Who hadst deserved more than a prison.\nYou taught me language; and my profit on't Is, I know how to curse. The red plague rid you For learning me your language!\nHag-seed, hence! Fetch us in fuel; and be quick, thou'rt best, To answer other business. Shrug'st thou, malice? If thou neglect'st or dost unwillingly What I command, I'll rack thee with old cramps, Fill all thy bones with aches, make thee roar That beasts shall tremble at thy din.\nNo, pray thee. I must obey: his art is of such power, It would control my dam's god, Setebos, and make a vassal of him.\nSo, slave; hence! Come unto these yellow sands, And then take hands\nCourtsied when you have and kiss'd The wild waves whist, Foot it featly here and there; And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear. Hark, hark!\nWhere should this music be? i' the air or the earth? It sounds no more: and sure, it waits upon Some god o' 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. Full fathom five thy father lies; Of his bones are coral made; Those are pearls that were his eyes\nNothing of him that doth fade But doth suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange. Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell Hark! now I hear them,--Ding-dong, bell.\nThe ditty does remember my drown'd father. This is no mortal business, nor no sound That the earth owes. I hear it now above me.\nThe fringed curtains of thine eye advance And say what thou seest yond.\nWhat is't? a spirit? Lord, how it looks about! Believe me, sir, It carries a brave form. But 'tis a spirit.\nNo, wench; it eats and sleeps and hath such senses 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 'em.\nI might call him A thing divine, for nothing natural I ever saw so noble.\nMost 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 or no?\nNo wonder, sir; But certainly a maid.\nMy language! heavens! I am the best of them that speak this speech, Were I but where 'tis spoken.\nHow? the best? What wert thou, if the King of Naples heard thee?\nA 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, never since at ebb, beheld The king my father wreck'd.\nAlack, for mercy!\nYes, faith, and all his lords; the Duke of Milan And his brave son being twain.\nWhy speaks my father so ungently? This Is the third man that e'er I saw, the first That e'er I sigh'd for: pity move my father To be inclined my way!\nO, if a virgin, And your affection not gone forth, I'll make you The queen of Naples.\nSoft, sir! one word more. They are both in either's powers; but this swift business I must uneasy make, lest too light winning Make the prize light. One word more; I charge thee That thou attend me: thou dost here usurp The name thou owest not; and hast put thyself Upon this island as a spy, to win it From me, the lord on't.\nNo, as I am a man.\nThere's nothing ill can dwell in such a temple\nIf the ill spirit have so fair a house, Good things will strive to dwell with't.\nFollow me. Speak not you for him; he's a traitor. Come; I'll manacle thy neck and feet together\nSea-water shalt thou drink; thy food shall be The fresh-brook muscles, wither'd roots and husks Wherein the acorn cradled. Follow.\nNo; I will resist such entertainment till Mine enemy has more power.\nO dear father, Make not too rash a trial of him, for He's gentle and not fearful.\nWhat? I say, My foot my tutor? Put thy sword up, traitor; Who makest a show but darest not strike, thy conscience Is so possess'd with guilt: come from thy ward, For I can here disarm thee with this stick And make thy weapon drop.\nBeseech you, father.\nHence! hang not on my garments.\nSir, have pity; I'll be his surety.\nSilence! one word more Shall make me chide thee, if not hate thee. What! An advocate for an imposter! hush! Thou think'st there is no more such shapes as he, Having seen but him and Caliban: foolish wench! To the most of men this is a Caliban And they to him are angels.\nMy affections Are then most humble; I have no ambition To see a goodlier man.\nCome on; obey\nThy nerves are in their infancy again And have no vigour in them.\nSo they are; 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, nor this man's threats, To whom I am subdued, are but light to me, Might I but through my prison once a day Behold this maid: all corners else o' the earth Let liberty make use of; space enough Have I in such a prison.\nBe of comfort; My father's of a better nature, sir, Than he appears by speech: this is unwonted Which now came from him.\nThou shalt be free As mountain winds: but then exactly do All points of my command.\nTo the syllable.\nCome, follow. Speak not for him.\nBeseech you, sir, be merry; you have cause, So have we all, of joy; for our escape Is much beyond our loss. Our hint of woe Is common; every day some sailor's wife, The masters of some merchant and the merchant Have just our theme of woe; but for the miracle, I mean our preservation, few in millions Can speak like us: then wisely, good sir, weigh Our sorrow with our comfort.\nPrithee, peace.\nHe receives comfort like cold porridge.\nThe visitor will not give him o'er so.\nLook he's winding up the watch of his wit; by and by it will strike.\nSir,--\nOne: tell.\nWhen every grief is entertain'd that's offer'd, Comes to the entertainer--\nA dollar.\nDolour comes to him, indeed: you have spoken truer than you purposed.\nYou have taken it wiselier than I meant you should.\nTherefore, my lord,--\nFie, what a spendthrift is he of his tongue!\nI prithee, spare.\nWell, I have done: but yet,--\nHe will be talking.\nWhich, of he or Adrian, for a good wager, first begins to crow?\nThe old cock.\nThe cockerel.\nDone. The wager?\nA laughter.\nA match!\nThough this island seem to be desert,--\nHa, ha, ha! So, you're paid.\nUninhabitable and almost inaccessible,--\nYet,--\nYet,--\nHe could not miss't.\nIt must needs be of subtle, tender and delicate temperance.\nTemperance was a delicate wench.\nAy, and a subtle; as he most learnedly delivered.\nThe air breathes upon us here most sweetly.\nAs if it had lungs and rotten ones.\nOr as 'twere perfumed by a fen.\nHere is everything advantageous to life.\nTrue; save means to live.\nOf that there's none, or little.\nHow lush and lusty the grass looks! how green!\nThe ground indeed is tawny.\nWith an eye of green in't.\nHe misses not much.\nNo; he doth but mistake the truth totally.\nBut the rarity of it is,--which is indeed almost beyond credit,--\nAs many vouched rarities are.\nThat our garments, being, as they were, drenched in the sea, hold notwithstanding their freshness and glosses, being rather new-dyed than stained with salt water.\nIf but one of his pockets could speak, would it not say he lies?\nAy, or very falsely pocket up his report\nMethinks our garments are now as fresh as when we put them on first in Afric, at the marriage of the king's fair daughter Claribel to the King of Tunis.\n'Twas a sweet marriage, and we prosper well in our return.\nTunis was never graced before with such a paragon to their queen.\nNot since widow Dido's time.\nWidow! a pox o' that! How came that widow in? widow Dido!\nWhat if he had said 'widower AEneas' too? Good Lord, how you take it!\n'Widow Dido' said you? you make me study of that\nshe was of Carthage, not of Tunis.\nThis Tunis, sir, was Carthage.\nCarthage?\nI assure you, Carthage.\nHis word is more than the miraculous harp; he hath raised the wall and houses too.\nWhat impossible matter will he make easy next?\nI think he will carry this island home in his pocket and give it his son for an apple.\nAnd, sowing the kernels of it in the sea, bring forth more islands.\nAy.\nWhy, in good time.\nSir, we were talking that our garments seem now as fresh as when we were at Tunis at the marriage of your daughter, who is now queen.\nAnd the rarest that e'er came there.\nBate, I beseech you, widow Dido.\nO, widow Dido! ay, widow Dido.\nIs not, sir, my doublet as fresh as the first day I wore it? I mean, in a sort.\nThat sort was well fished for.\nWhen I wore it at your daughter's marriage?\nYou cram these words into mine ears against The stomach of my sense. Would I had never Married my daughter there! for, coming thence, My son is lost and, in my rate, she too, Who is so far from Italy removed I ne'er again shall see her. O thou mine heir Of Naples and of Milan, what strange fish Hath made his meal on thee?\nSir, he may live\nI saw him beat the surges under him, And ride upon their backs; he trod the water, Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted The surge most swoln that met him; his bold head 'Bove the contentious waves he kept, and oar'd Himself with his good arms in lusty stroke To the shore, that o'er his wave-worn basis bow'd, As stooping to relieve him: I not doubt He came alive to land.\nNo, no, he's gone.\nSir, you may thank yourself for this great loss, That would not bless our Europe with your daughter, But rather lose her to an African; Where she at least is banish'd from your eye, Who hath cause to wet the grief on't.\nPrithee, peace.\nYou were kneel'd to and importuned otherwise By all of us, and the fair soul herself Weigh'd between loathness and obedience, at Which end o' the beam should bow. We have lost your son, I fear, for ever: Milan and Naples have More widows in them of this business' making Than we bring men to comfort them\nThe fault's your own.\nSo is the dear'st o' the loss.\nMy lord Sebastian, The truth you speak doth lack some gentleness And time to speak it in: you rub the sore, When you should bring the plaster.\nVery well.\nAnd most chirurgeonly.\nIt is foul weather in us all, good sir, When you are cloudy.\nFoul weather?\nVery foul.\nHad I plantation of this isle, my lord,--\nHe'ld sow't with nettle-seed.\nOr docks, or mallows.\nAnd were the king on't, what would I do?\n'Scape being drunk for want of wine.\nI' the commonwealth I would by contraries Execute all things; for no kind of traffic Would I admit; no name of magistrate; Letters should not be known; riches, poverty, And use of service, none; contract, succession, Bourn, bound of land, tilth, vineyard, none; No use of metal, corn, or wine, or oil; No occupation; all men idle, all; And women too, but innocent and pure; No sovereignty;--\nYet he would be king on't.\nThe latter end of his commonwealth forgets the beginning.\nAll things in common nature should produce Without sweat or endeavour: treason, felony, Sword, pike, knife, gun, or need of any engine, Would I not have; but nature should bring forth, Of its own kind, all foison, all abundance, To feed my innocent people.\nNo marrying 'mong his subjects?\nNone, man; all idle: whores and knaves.\nI would with such perfection govern, sir, To excel the golden age.\nGod save his majesty!\nLong live Gonzalo!\nAnd,--do you mark me, sir?\nPrithee, no more: thou dost talk nothing to me.\nI do well believe your highness; and did it to minister occasion to these gentlemen, who are of such sensible and nimble lungs that they always use to laugh at nothing.\n'Twas you we laughed at.\nWho in this kind of merry fooling am nothing to you: so you may continue and laugh at nothing still.\nWhat a blow was there given!\nAn it had not fallen flat-long.\nYou are gentlemen of brave metal; you would lift the moon out of her sphere, if she would continue in it five weeks without changing.\nWe would so, and then go a bat-fowling.\nNay, good my lord, be not angry.\nNo, I warrant you; I will not adventure my discretion so weakly. Will you laugh me asleep, for I am very heavy?\nGo sleep, and hear us.\nWhat, all so soon asleep! I wish mine eyes Would, with themselves, shut up my thoughts: I find They are inclined to do so.\nPlease you, sir, Do not omit the heavy offer of it\nIt seldom visits sorrow; when it doth, It is a comforter.\nWe two, my lord, Will guard your person while you take your rest, And watch your safety.\nThank you. Wondrous heavy.\nWhat a strange drowsiness possesses them!\nIt is the quality o' the climate.\nWhy Doth it not then our eyelids sink? I find not Myself disposed to sleep.\nNor I; my spirits are nimble. They fell together all, as by consent; They dropp'd, as by a thunder-stroke. What might, Worthy Sebastian? O, what might?--No more:-- And yet me thinks I see it in thy face, What thou shouldst be: the occasion speaks thee, and My strong imagination sees a crown Dropping upon thy head.\nWhat, art thou waking?\nDo you not hear me speak?\nI do; and surely It is a sleepy language and thou speak'st Out of thy sleep. What is it thou didst say? This is a strange repose, to be asleep With eyes wide open; standing, speaking, moving, And yet so fast asleep.\nNoble Sebastian, Thou let'st thy fortune sleep--die, rather; wink'st Whiles thou art waking. \n"}