THE CLOUDY CURTAINS CLOSE.
[At the centre Caliban now leaps up in loud, excited laughter. Clapping his hands in the air, he strides toward Ariel on the throne.]
CALIBAN Aha! Troy, Troy! Lips of Troyland and Egypt! Lovers in links of gold! Ho, wine of woman Bubbling in vats of war!—drinketh you all Caliban, Caliban, son of Setebos.—Ariel, Learnest me Art? Lo, now: I am his Artist! Tell him, Lord Prospero, Caliban createth Glories more ’stounding still. Art? Ho, ’tis God’s play! But me? Am God i’ the mire: can make me Troy And purple Egypt out of the mud i’ my palm; Giveth me only that—his little play stick [Pointing to the staff in Ariel’s hand.] To stir in the mud withal.
ARIEL Not yet!—This staff Is wrought to stir the spirits of the air, Not dabble i’ the slime.
CALIBAN Why so? From bog-slime bloometh The lotus, and the sea-lark feedeth her young Along the salt flats.— [With childish wheedling.] Prithee—the staff?
ARIEL [Descending the throne.] ’Twould burn thee. Touch not till thou art free. Yet patience, monster, For thou hast learned to answer well, and growest Rarely in thought and speech.
CALIBAN [Tickled to laughter.] Yea, clever monster Soon groweth monstrous clever. More art, fine Ariel! Let Caliban speak thy Prologue.
ARIEL Hush!—Miranda!
[From her shrine Miranda comes forth, with the Muses. Seeing the two, she pauses astonished.]
MIRANDA Nay!—Is this Ariel?