[Exeunt.
ACT III
Scene I.—Before Prospero’s Cell.
Enter Ferdinand, bearing a log.
There be some sports are painful, and their labour
Delight in them sets off:[418-1] some kinds of baseness[418-2]
Are nobly undergone; and most poor matters
Point to rich ends. This my mean task would be
As heavy to me as ’tis odious, but
The mistress which I serve quickens what’s dead,
And makes my labours pleasures:[418-3] O, she is
Ten times more gentle than her father’s crabbed,
And he’s composed of harshness. I must remove
Some thousands of these logs, and pile them up,
Upon a sore injunction: my sweet mistress
Weeps when she sees me work; and says such baseness
Had never like executor. I forget:
But these sweet thoughts do even refresh my labour;
Most busy when I do it least.[419-4]
Enter Miranda; and Prospero behind.
Mira. Alas, now, pray you,
Work not so hard: I would the lightning had
Burnt up those logs that you’re enjoin’d to pile!
Pray, set it down, and rest you: when this burns,
’Twill weep for having wearied you. My father
Is hard at study; pray now, rest yourself:
He’s safe for these three hours.
Ferd. O most dear mistress,
The Sun will set before I shall discharge
What I must strive to do.
Mira. If you’ll sit down,
I’ll bear your logs the while: pray, give me that;
I’ll carry’t to the pile.
Ferd. No, precious creature;
I’d rather crack my sinews, break my back,
Than you should such dishonour undergo,
While I sit lazy by.