Mira. O dear father,
Make not too rash a trial of him, for
He’s gentle, and not fearful.[392-118]
Pros. What, I say,
My fool 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;[393-119]
For I can here disarm thee with this stick,
And make thy weapon drop.
Mira. Beseech you, father!—
Pros. Hence! hang not on my garments.
Mira. Sir, have pity;
I’ll be his surety.
Pros. Silence! one word more
Shall make me chide thee, if not hate thee. What!
An advocate for an impostor? hush!
Thou think’st there are no more such shapes as he,
Having seen but him and Caliban: foolish wench!
To th’ most of men this is a Caliban,
And they to him are angels.
Mira. My affections
Are, then, most humble; I have no ambition
To see a goodlier man.
Pros. [To Ferd.] Come on; obey:
Thy nerves[393-120] are in their infancy again,
And have no vigour in them.
Ferd. So 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, and this man’s threats
To whom I am subdued, are 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.
Pros. [Aside.] It works.—[To Ferd.] Come on.—
Thou hast done well, fine Ariel!—Follow me.—
[To Ariel.] Hark, what thou else shalt do me.