The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. William Shakespeare
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thou fool; it is but trash.
TRINCULO. O, ho, monster! we know what belongs to a frippery.—O King Stephano!
STEPHANO. Put off that gown, Trinculo; by this hand, I’ll have that gown.
TRINCULO.
Thy Grace shall have it.
CALIBAN.
The dropsy drown this fool! What do you mean
To dote thus on such luggage? Let’s along,
And do the murder first. If he awake,
From toe to crown he’ll fill our skins with pinches;
Make us strange stuff.
STEPHANO. Be you quiet, monster.—Mistress line, is not this my jerkin? Now is the jerkin under the line: now, jerkin, you are like to lose your hair, and prove a bald jerkin.
TRINCULO. Do, do: we steal by line and level, an’t like your Grace.
STEPHANO. I thank thee for that jest: here’s a garment for’t: wit shall not go unrewarded while I am king of this country: ‘Steal by line and level,’ is an excellent pass of pate: there’s another garmet for’t.
TRINCULO. Monster, come, put some lime upon your fingers, and away with the rest.
CALIBAN.
I will have none on’t. We shall lose our time,
And all be turn’d to barnacles, or to apes
With foreheads villainous low.
STEPHANO. Monster, lay-to your fingers: help to bear this away where my hogshead of wine is, or I’ll turn you out of my kingdom. Go to; carry this.
TRINCULO.
And this.
STEPHANO.
Ay, and this.
[A noise of hunters beard. Enter divers Spirits, in shape of hounds, and hunt them about; PROSPERO and ARIEL setting them on]
PROSPERO.
Hey, Mountain, hey!
ARIEL.
Silver! there it goes, Silver!
PROSPERO.
Fury, Fury! There, Tyrant, there! hark, hark!
[CALIBAN, STEPHANO, and TRINCULO are driven out.]
Go, charge my goblins that they grind their joints
With dry convulsions; shorten up their sinews
With aged cramps, and more pinch-spotted make them
Than pard, or cat o’ mountain.
ARIEL.
Hark, they roar.
PROSPERO.
Let them be hunted soundly. At this hour
Lies at my mercy all mine enemies;
Shortly shall all my labours end, and thou
Shalt have the air at freedom;for a little
Follow, and do me service.
[Exeunt]
ACT 5
SCENE I. Before the cell of PROSPERO.
[Enter PROSPERO in his magic robes; and ARIEL.]
PROSPERO.
Now does my project gather to a head:
My charms crack not; my spirits obey, and time
Goes upright with his carriage. How’s the day?
ARIEL.
On the sixth hour; at which time, my lord,
You said our work should cease.
PROSPERO.
I did say so,
When first I rais’d the tempest. Say, my spirit,
How fares the King and ‘s followers?
ARIEL.
Confin’d together
In the same fashion as you gave in charge;
Just as you left them: all prisoners, sir,
In the line-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 you term’d, sir, ‘the good old lord, Gonzalo’:
His tears run down his beard, like winter’s drops
From eaves of reeds; your charm so strongly works them,
That if you now beheld them, your affections
Would become tender.
PROSPERO.
Dost thou think so, spirit?
ARIEL.
Mine would, sir, were I human.
PROSPERO.
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?
Though with their high wrongs I am struck to the 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.
ARIEL.
I’ll fetch them, sir.
[Exit.]
PROSPERO.
Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and
groves;
And ye that on the sands with printless foot
Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him
When he comes back; you demi-puppets that
By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make,
Whereof the ewe not bites; and you whose pastime
Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice
To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid,—
Weak masters though ye be,—I have bedimm’d
The noontide sun, call’d forth the mutinous winds,
And ‘twixt the green sea and the azur’d vault
Set roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder
Have I given fire, and rifted Jove’s stout oak
With his own bolt: the strong-bas’d promontory
Have I made shake; and by the spurs pluck’d up
The pine and cedar: graves at my command
Have wak’d their sleepers, op’d, and let them forth
By my so potent art. But this rough magic
I here abjure; and, when I have requir’d
Some heavenly music,—which even now I do,—
To work mine end upon their senses that
This airy charm is for, I’ll break my staff,
Bury