Prosp. Fifteen years since, Miranda, Thy father was the duke of Milan, and A prince of power.
Mir. Sir, are not you my father?
Prosp. Thy mother was all virtue, and she said Thou wast my daughter, and thy sister too.
Mir. O heavens! what foul play had we, that We hither came? or was't a blessing that we did?
Prosp. Both, both, my girl.
Mir. But, sir, I pray, proceed.
Prosp. My brother, and thy uncle, called Antonio, To whom I trusted then the manage of my state, While I was wrapped with secret studies,—that false uncle, Having attained the craft of granting suits, And of denying them; whom to advance, Or lop, for over-topping,—soon was grown The ivy, which did hide my princely trunk, And sucked my verdure out: Thou attend'st not.
Mir. O good sir, I do.
Prosp. I thus neglecting worldly ends, and bent To closeness, and the bettering of my mind, Waked in my false brother an evil nature: He did believe He was indeed the duke, because he then Did execute the outward face of sovereignty—— Do'st thou still mark me?