The Tempest

Page 32

Fer. Mir. We wish your peace.

Enter.

Pro. Come with a thought; I thank thee Ariell: come.

Enter Ariell.

Ar. Thy thoughts I cleaue to, what's thy pleasure?

Pro. Spirit: We must prepare to meet with Caliban

Ar. I my Commander, when I presented Ceres I thought to haue told thee of it, but I fear'd Least I might anger thee

Pro. Say again, where didst thou leaue these varlots?

Ar. I told you Sir, they were red-hot with drinking, So full of valour, that they smote the ayre For breathing in their faces: beate the ground For kissing of their feete; yet alwaies bending Towards their proiect: then I beate my Tabor, At which like vnback't colts they prickt their eares, Aduanc'd their eye-lids, lifted vp their noses As they smelt musicke, so I charm'd their eares That Calfe-like, they my lowing follow'd, through Tooth'd briars, sharpe firzes, pricking gosse, & thorns, Which entred their fraile shins: at last I left them I'th' filthy mantled poole beyond your Cell, There dancing vp to th' chins, that the fowle Lake Ore-stunck their feet

Pro. This was well done (my bird) Thy shape inuisible retaine thou still: The trumpery in my house, goe bring it hither For stale to catch these theeues

Ar. I go, I goe.

Enter.

Pro. A Deuill, a borne-Deuill, on whose nature Nurture can neuer sticke: on whom my paines Humanely taken, all, all lost, quite lost, And, as with age, his body ouglier growes, So his minde cankers: I will plague them all, Euen to roaring: Come, hang on them this line.

Enter Ariell, loaden with glistering apparell, &c. Enter Caliban, Stephano, and Trinculo, all wet.

Cal. Pray you tread softly, that the blinde Mole may not heare a foot fall: we now are neere his Cell

St. Monster, your Fairy, w you say is a harmles Fairy, Has done little better then plaid the Iacke with vs

Trin. Monster, I do smell all horse-pisse, at which My nose is in great indignation

Ste. So is mine. Do you heare Monster: If I should Take a displeasure against you: Looke you

Trin. Thou wert but a lost Monster

Cal. Good my Lord, giue me thy fauour stil, Be patient, for the prize Ile bring thee too Shall hudwinke this mischance: therefore speake softly, All's husht as midnight yet

Trin. I, but to loose our bottles in the Poole

The Tempest Page 33

William Shakespeare Plays

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