PROSPERO [Smiling, to Miranda.] This glowing taketh thee.
MIRANDA O, my good father! Methinks my soul is a flake o’ the sun, for where Things golden shine, I spangle, too; yea, burn To be Aurora, and trail cloth of gold Around the world.
PROSPERO Unless my will miscarry, Thou shalt be such a morning messenger And wake the world with beauty. Now my plans Wait on a vast result, for Caliban Himself hath gone to deal with Setebos His gray priest, Death.
MIRANDA What, Caliban! O glad Hope for us all! Your art begins to triumph, And Ariel’s Spirits to conquer.
PROSPERO That still waits: Meanwhile mine art drinks from this renaissance Deep draughts against a dark to-morrow.—Hither, You Fauns! Come, bear my gold-emblazoned scrolls And silver-claspèd books before me!
[Lifting the scrolls and volumes from their pile by the shrine, the Fauns come forward with them to Prospero, who turns affectionately to Miranda.]
I Will leave you now, and pore awhile on these For further conjurings.
MIRANDA [Detaining him.] Yet conjure once Again before you go!
PROSPERO What wouldst thou, dear?
MIRANDA Hardly I know: but something high, serene, And passionately fair: some vision’d glimpse Of fadeless youth, and lovers rich through love.