O, the heavens!

What foul play had we that we came from thence?

Or blessed was ’t we did?

PROSPERO.                                              Both, both, my girl:

By foul play, as thou say’st, were we heav’d thence;

But blessedly holp hither.

MIRANDA.                                              O! my heart bleeds

To think o’ the teen that I have turn’d you to,

Which is from my remembrance. Please you, further.

PROSPERO. My brother and thy uncle, call’d Antonio,—

I pray thee, mark me,—that a brother should

Be so perfidious!—he whom next thyself,

Of all the world I lov’d, and to him put

The manage of my state; as at that time

Through all the signiories it was the first,

And Prospero the prime duke; being so reputed

In dignity, and for the liberal arts,

Without a parallel: those being all my study,

The government I cast upon my brother,

And to my state grew stranger, being transported

And rapt in secret studies. Thy false uncle—

Dost thou attend me?

MIRANDA.                                              Sir, most heedfully.

PROSPERO. Being once perfected how to grant suits,

How to deny them, who t’ advance, and who

To trash for over-topping; new created

The creatures that were mine, I say, or chang’d ’em,

Or else new form’d ’em: havin both the key

Of officer and office, set all hearts i’ the state

To what tune pleas’d his ear; that now he was

The ivy which had hid my princely trunk,

And suck’d my verdure out on’t.—Thou attend’st not.

MIRANDA. O, good sir! I do.

PROSPERO.                                              I pray thee, mark me.

I, thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated

To closeness and the bettering of my mind

With that, which, but by being so retir’d,

O’erpriz’d all popular rate, in my false brother

Awak’d an evil nature; and my trust,

Like a good parent, did beget of him

A falsehood in its contrary as great

As my trust was; which had, indeed no limit,

A confidence sans bound. He being thus lorded,

Not only with what my revenue yielded,

But what my power might else exact,—like one,

Who having, into truth, by telling of it,

Made such a sinner of his memory,

To credit his own lie,—he did believe

He was indeed the duke; out o’ the substitution,

And executing th’ outward face of royalty,

With all prerogative:—Hence his ambition growing,—

Dost thou hear?

MIRANDA.                                              Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.

PROSPERO. To have no screen between this part he play’d

And him he play’d it for, he needs will be

Absolute Milan. Me, poor man,—my library

Was dukedom large enough: of temporal royalties

He thinks me now incapable; confederates,—

So dry he was for sway,—wi’ the king of Naples

To give him annual tribute, do him homage;

Subject his coronet to his crown, and bend

The dukedom, yet unbow’d,—alas, poor Milan!—

To most ignoble stooping.

MIRANDA.                                              O the heavens!

PROSPERO. Mark his condition and the event; then tell me

If this might be a brother.

MIRANDA.                                              I should sin

To think but nobly of my grandmother:

Good wombs have borne bad sons.

PROSPERO.                                              Now the condition.

This King of Naples, being an enemy

To me inveterate, hearkens my brother’s suit;

Which was, that he, in lieu o’ the premises

Of homage and I know not how much tribute,

Should presently extirpate me and mine

Out of the dukedom, and confer fair Milan,

With all the honours on my brother: whereon,

A treacherous army levied, one midnight

Fated to the purpose did Antonio open

The gates of Milan; and, i’ the dead of darkness,

The ministers for the purpose hurried thence

Me and thy crying self.

MIRANDA.