MIRANDA [Rising, goes to Prospero’s arms.] Father! [From the outer dimness, Caliban—who, since the appearance of the burning Cross, has lain flat on the throne steps— now grovels forward [trailing his silken garment by one sleeve] and flings the staff of Prospero into the light space.]
CALIBAN No more! Will never touch it more!
PROSPERO [Staring at the staff.] A thousand years To build, and build for beauty, yet in one flare Of riot lust, a lubber idiot Confounds time and my toil.—Ah, daughter, daughter! How shall mine art reclaim this lapsing ape From his own bondage?
MIRANDA Sir, my heart is shaken; Yet the sweet sight of Agnes and her lamb Hath shown new comfort.
[Stooping, she lifts the staff and holds it toward him.]
Therefore, even as a Shepherd, Take up thy staff in patience, and urge still onward This poor sloughed sheep.
PROSPERO Yea, patience! Sun, moon, stars, And all that waxes hath its waning-hour; But patience is the night behind the stars, Steadfast through all eclipse.
[With his staff, he touches Caliban where he lies cringed.]
Stir, thou thick clot Of clay and god-spittle! Let thine atoms thaw To mud, where Prosper may imprint once more His blurrèd seal.
CALIBAN [Hoarsely, half rising.] Mud: yea, methought to be His Artist, and make dream-things of mine own Like Ariel his spirits, yet now—am mud.