Beseech 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.

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

You 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?

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 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.

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 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:
The fault’s your own.

My 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.

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

I’ 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;⁠—

All 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.

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

What, all so soon asleep! I wish mine eyes
Would, with themselves, shut up my thoughts: I find
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.

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

Why
Doth it not then our eyelids sink? I find not
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, and
My strong imagination sees a crown
Dropping upon thy head.

I 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.

Noble Sebastian,
Thou let’st thy fortune sleep⁠—die, rather; wink’st
Whiles thou art waking.

Thou dost snore distinctly;
There’s meaning in thy snores.

I am more serious than my custom: you
Must be so too, if heed me; which to do
Trebles thee o’er.

Do so: to ebb
Hereditary sloth instructs me.

O,
If you but knew how you the purpose cherish
Whiles thus you mock it! how, in stripping it,
You more invest it! Ebbing men, indeed,
Most often do so near the bottom run
By their own fear or sloth.

Prithee, say on:
The setting of thine eye and cheek proclaim
A matter from thee, and a birth indeed
Which throes thee much to yield.

Thus, sir:
Although this lord of weak remembrance, this,
Who shall be of as little memory
When he is earth’d, hath here almost persuaded⁠—
For he’s a spirit of persuasion, only
Professes to persuade⁠—the king his son’s alive,
’Tis as impossible that he’s undrown’d
And he that sleeps here swims.

I have no hope
That he’s undrown’d.

O, out of that “no hope”
What great hope have you! no hope that way is
Another way so high a hope that even
Ambition cannot pierce a wink beyond,
But doubt discovery there. Will you grant with me
That Ferdinand is drown’d?

Then, tell me,
Who’s the next heir of Naples?

She that is queen of Tunis; she that dwells
Ten leagues beyond man’s life; she that from Naples
Can have no note, unless the sun were post⁠—
The man i’ the moon’s too slow⁠—till new-born chins
Be rough and razorable; she that⁠—from whom?
We all were sea-swallow’d, though some cast again,
And by that destiny to perform an act
Whereof what’s past is prologue, what to come
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 regions
There is some space.

A space whose every cubit
Seems to cry out, “How shall that Claribel
Measure us back to Naples? Keep in Tunis,
And let Sebastian wake.” Say, this were death
That now hath seized them; why, they were no worse
Than now they are. There be that can rule Naples
As well as he that sleeps; lords that can prate
As amply and unnecessarily
As this Gonzalo; I myself could make
A chough of as deep chat. O, that you bore
The mind that I do! what a sleep were this
For your advancement! Do you understand me?

And how does your content
Tender your own good fortune?

I remember
You did supplant your brother Prospero.

True:
And look how well my garments sit upon me;
Much feater than before: my brother’s servants
Were 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 not
This deity in my bosom: twenty consciences,
That stand ’twixt me and Milan, candied be they
And 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 put
This ancient morsel, this Sir Prudence, who
Should 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 that
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 stroke
Shall free thee from the tribute which thou payest:
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 danger
That you, his friend, are in; and sends me forth⁠—
For else his project dies⁠—to keep them living. Sings in Gonzalo’s ear.

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

Now, good angels
Preserve the king. They wake.

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 bellowing
Like 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 roar
Of 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 search
For my poor son.

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

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 up
From bogs, fens, flats, on Prosper fall and make him
By inch-meal a disease! His spirits hear me
And 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 dark
Out of my way, unless he bid ’em; but
For every trifle are they set upon me;
Sometime like apes that mow and chatter at me
And after bite me, then like hedgehogs which
Lie tumbling in my barefoot way and mount
Their pricks at my footfall; sometime am I
All wound with adders who with cloven tongues
Do hiss me into madness.

Lo, now, lo!
Here comes a spirit of his, and to torment me
For 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—

This is a very scurvy tune to sing at a man’s
funeral: well, here’s my comfort. Drinks.

Sings. The master, the swabber, the boatswain and I,
The gunner and his mate
Loved 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 have seen thee in her and I do adore thee:
My mistress show’d me thee and thy dog and thy bush.

I’ll show thee every fertile inch o’ th’ island;
And I will kiss thy foot: I prithee, be my god.

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 pignuts;
Show thee a jay’s nest and instruct thee how
To snare the nimble marmoset; I’ll bring thee
To clustering filberts and sometimes I’ll get thee
Young scamels from the rock. Wilt thou go with me?

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