The Tempest — Act 2

Beseech you, sir, be merry; you have cause,So have we all, of joy; for our escapeIs much beyond our loss. Our hint of woeIs common; every day some sailor's wife,The masters of some merchant and the merchantHave just our theme of woe; but for the miracle,I mean our preservation, few in millionsCan speak like us: then wisely, good sir, weighOur sorrow with our comfort.

When every grief is entertain’d that’s offer’d,Comes to the entertainer—

You cram these words into mine ears againstThe stomach of my sense. Would I had neverMarried my daughter there! for, coming thence,My son is lost and, in my rate, she too,Who is so far from Italy removedI ne’er again shall see her. O thou mine heirOf Naples and of Milan, what strange fishHath made his meal on thee?

Hath made his meal on thee? ‍Sir, he may live:I saw him beat the surges under him,And ride upon their backs; he trod the water,Whose enmity he flung aside, and breastedThe surge most swoln that met him: his bold head‘Bove the contentious waves he kept, and oar’dHimself with his good arms in lusty strokeTo the shore, that o’er his wave-worn basis bow’d,As stooping to relieve him: I not doubtHe came alive to land.

Sir, 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.

You were kneel’d to and importuned otherwiseBy all of us, and the fair sout herselfWeigh’d, between loathness and obedience, atWhich end 0’ the beam should bow. We have lost your son,I fear, for ever: Milan and Naples haveMore widows in them of this business’ makingThan we bring men to comfort them:The fault ’s your own.

My lord Sebastian,The truth you speak doth lack some gentlenessAnd time to speak it in: you rub the sore,When you should bring the plaster.

It is foul weather in us all, good sir,When you are cloudy.

I’ the commonwealth I would by contrariesExecute all things; for no kind of trafficWould 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;—

All things in common nature should produceWithout 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.

I would with such perfection govern, sir,To excel the golden age.

What, all so soon asleep! I wish mine eyesWould, with themselves, shut up my thoughts: I findThey are inclined to do so.

They are inclined to do so. ‍Please you, sir,Do not omit the heavy offer of it:It seldom visits sorrow; when it doth,It is a comforter.

It is a comforter. ‍We two, my lord,Will guard your person while you take your rest,And watch your safety.

It is the quality o’ the climate. ‍WhyDoth it not then our eyelids sink? I find notMyself disposed to sleep.

Myself disposed to sleep. ‍Nor 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, andMy strong imagination sees a crownDropping upon thy head.

Do you not hear me speak? ‍I do; and surelyIt is a sleepy language, and thou speak’stOut of thy sleep. What is it thou didst say?This is a strange repose, to be asleepWith eyes wide open; standing, speaking, moving,And yet so fast asleep.

And yet so fast asleep. ‍Noble Sebastian,Thou let’st thy fortune sleep—die, rather; wink’stWhiles thou art waking.

Whiles thou art waking. ‍Thou dost snore distinctly;There ’s meaning in thy snores.

I am more serious than my custom: youMust be so too, if heed me; which to doTrebles thee o’er.

I ’ll teach you how to flow. ‍Do so: to ebbHereditary sloth instructs me.

Hereditary sloth instructs me. ‍O,If you but knew how you the purpose cherishWhiles thus you mock it! how, in stripping it,You more invest it! Ebbing men, indeed,Most often do so near the bottom runBy their own fear or sloth.

By their own fear or sloth. ‍Prithee, say on:The setting of thine eye and cheek proclaimA matter from thee, and a birth indeedWhich throes thee much to yield.

Which throes thee much to yield. ‍Thus, sir:Although this lord of weak remembrance, this,Who shall be of as little memoryWhen he is earth’d, hath here almost persuaded,—For he ’s a spirit of persuasion, onlyProfesses to persuade,—the king his son ’s alive,’Tis as impossible that he ’s undrown’dAs he that sleeps here swims.

As he that sleeps here swims. ‍I have no hopeThat he ’s undrown’d.

That he ’s undrown’d. ‍O, out of that “no hope”What great hope have you! no hope that way isAnother way so high a hope that evenAmbition cannot pierce a wink beyond,But doubt discovery there. Will you grant with meThat Ferdinand is drown’d?

That Ferdinand is drown’d? }He ’s gone.Who’s the next heir of Naples.

She that is queen of Tunis; she that dwellsTen leagues beyond man’s life; she that from NaplesCan have no note, unless the sun were post—The man i’ the moon’s too slow—till new-born chinsBe rough and razorable; she that—from whom?We all were sea-swallow’d, though some cast again,And by that destiny to perform an actWhereof what ’s past is prologue, what to comeIn yours and my discharge.

In yours and my discharge. ‍What stuff is this! how say you?’Tis true, my brother’s daughter ’s queen of Tunis;So is she heir of Naples; ’twixt which regionsThere is some space.

There is some space. ‍A space whose every cubitSeems to cry out, “How shall that ClaribelMeasure us back to Naples? Keep in Tunis,And let Sebastian wake.” Say, this were deathThat now hath seized them; why, they were no worseThan now they are. There be that can rule NaplesAs well as he that sleeps; lords that can prateAs amply and unnecessarilyAs this Gonzalo; I myself could makeA chough of as deep chat. O, that you boreThe mind that I do! what a sleep were thisFor your advancement! Do you understand me?

Methinks I do. ‍And how does your contentTender your own good fortune?

Tender your own good fortune? ‍I rememberYou did supplant your brother Prospero.

You did supplant your brother Prospero. ‍True;And look how well my garments sit upon me;Much feater than before: my brother’s servantsWere then my fellows; now they are my men.

Ay, sir: where lies that? if ’twere a kibe,’Twould put me to my slipper: but I feel notThis deity in my bosom: twenty consciences,That stand ’twixt me and Milan, candied be theyAnd melt ere they molest! Here lies your brother,No better than the earth he lies upon,If he were that which now he ’s like, that ’s dead;Whom I, with this obedient steel, three inches of it,Can lay to bed for ever; whiles you, doing thus,To the perpetual wink for aye might putThis ancient morsel, this Sir Prudence, whoShould not upbraid our course. For all the rest,They ’ll take suggestion as a cat laps milk;They ’ll tell the clock to any business thatWe say befits the hour.

We say befits the hour. ‍Thy case, dear friend,Shall be my precedent; as thou got’st Milan,I'll come by Naples. Draw thy sword: one strokeShall free thee from the tribute which thou payest ;And I the king shall love thee.

And I the king shall love thee. ‍Draw together;And when I rear my hand, do you the like.To fall it on Gonzalo.

My master through his art foresees the dangerThat you, his friend, are in; and sends me forth—For else his project dies—to keep them living.

While you here do snoring lie,Open-eyed conspiracyHis time doth take.If of life you keep a care,Shake off slumber, and beware:Awake, awake!

Why, how now? ho, awake! Why are you drawn?Wherefore this ghastly looking?

Whiles we stood here securing your repose,Even now, we heard a hollow burst of bellowingLike bulls, or rather lions: did ’t not wake you?It struck mine ear most terribly.

O, ’twas a din to fright a monster’s ear,To make an earthquake! sure, it was the roarOf a whole herd of lions.

Upon mine honour, sir, I heard a humming,And that a strange one too, which did awake me:I shaked you, sir, and cried: as mine eyes open’d,I saw their weapons drawn: there was a noise,That ’s verily, ’Tis best we stand upon our guard,Or that we quit this place: let ’s draw our weapons.

Lead off this ground; and let ’s make further searchFor my poor son.

For my poor son. ‍Heavens keep him from these beasts!For he is, sure, i’ the island.

For he is, sure, i’ the island. ‍Lead away.

Prospero my lord shall know what I have done:So, king, go safely on to seek thy son.[Exeunt.

All the infections that the sun sucks upFrom bogs, fens, flats, on Prosper fall and make himBy inch-meal a disease! His spirits hear meAnd yet I needs must curse. But they ’ll nor pinch,Fright me with urchin-shows, pitch me i’ the mire,Nor lead me, like a firebrand, in the darkOut of my way, unless he bid ’em; butFor every trifle are they set upon me;Sometime like apes that mow and chatter at meAnd after bite me, then like hedgehogs whichLie tumbling in my barefoot way and mountTheir pricks at my footfall; sometime am IAll wound with adders who with cloven tonguesDo hiss me into madness.

Do hiss me into madness. ‍Lo, now, lo!Here comes a spirit of his, and to torment meFor bringing wood in slowly. I ’ll fall flat;Perchance he will not mind me.

I shall no more to sea, to sea,Here shall I die ashore

The master, the swabber, the boatswain and I,The gunner and his mateLoved Mall, Meg and Marian and Margery,But none of us cared for Kate;For she had a tongue with a tang,Would cry to a sailor, Go hang!She loved not the savour of tar nor of pitch,Yet a tailor might scratch her where’er she did itch:Then to sea, boys, and let her go hang!

[Aside.] These be fine things, an if they be not sprites.‘That ’s a brave god and bears celestial liquor.I will kneel to him.

I ’ll show thee the best springs; I ’ll pluck thee berries;I ’ll fish for thee and get thee wood enough.A plague upon the tyrant that I serve!I ’ll bear him no more sticks, but follow thee,Thou wondrous man.

I prithee, let me bring thee where crabs grow;And I with my long nails will dig thee pig-nuts;Show thee a jay’s nest and instruct thee howTo snare the nimble marmoset; I ’ll bring theeTo clustering filberts and sometimes I ’ll get theeYoung scamels from the rock. Wilt thou go with me?

No more dams I ’ll make for fish;Nor fetch in firingAt requiring;Nor scrape trencher, nor wash dish:’Ban, ’Ban, CacalibanHas a new master; get a new man.