Ferd. No, I will resist such entertainment, Till my enemy has more power. [He draws, and is charmed from moving.
Mir. O dear father! make not too rash a trial Of him; for he is gentle, and not fearful.
Prosp. My child my tutor! put thy sword up, Traitor, who mak'st a show, but dar'st not strike: Thy conscience is possessed with guilt. Come from thy ward, For I can here disarm thee with this wand, And make thy weapon drop.
Mir. 'Beseech you, father.
Prosp. Hence: Hang not on my garment.
Mir. Sir, have pity! I'll be his surety!
Prosp. Silence! one word more Shall make me chide thee, if not hate thee: What! An advocate for an impostor? sure Thou think'st there are no more such shapes as his; To the most of men this is a Caliban, And they to him are angels.
Mir. My affections are then most humble; I have no ambition to see a goodlier man.
Prosp. Come on, obey: Thy nerves 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, would seem light to me, Might I but once a day thorough my prison Behold this maid: All corners else o' the earth Let liberty make use of: I have space Enough in such a prison.