Enter certain Nymphs.
You sunburnt sicklemen, of August weary,
135 Come hither from the furrow, and be merry:
Make [holiday]; your rye-straw hats put on,
And these fresh nymphs encounter every one
In country footing.
[Enter certain Reapers], properly habited: they join with the Nymphs in a graceful dance; towards the end whereof Prospero starts suddenly, and speaks; after which, to a strange, hollow, and confused noise, they heavily vanish.
Pros. [Aside] I had forgot that foul conspiracy
140 Of the beast Caliban and his confederates
Against my life: the minute of their plot