PROSPERO.                            Dost thou forget

From what a torment I did free thee?

ARIEL.                                              No.

PROSPERO. Thou dost; and think’st it much to tread the

ooze

Of the salt deep,

To run upon the sharp wind of the north,

To do me business in the veins o’ th’ earth

When it is bak’d with frost.

ARIEL.                                              I do not, sir.

PROSPERO. Thou liest, malignant thing! Hast thou forgot

The foul witch Sycorax, who with age and envy

Was grown into a hoop? Hast thou forgot her?

ARIEL. No, sir.

PROSPERO.                                              Thou hast. Where was she born? Speak; tell

me.

ARIEL. Sir, in Argier.

PROSPERO.                                             O! was she so? I must,

Once in a month, recount what thou hast been,

Which thou forget’st. This damn’d witch, Sycorax,

For mischiefs manifold and sorceries terrible

To enter human, hearing, from Argier,

Thou know’st, was banish’d: for one thing she did

They would not take her life. Is not this true?

ARIEL. Ay, sir.

PROSPERO. This blue-ey’d hag was hither brought with

child

And here was left by the sailors. Thou, my slave,

As thou report’st thyself, wast then her servant:

And, for thou wast a spirit too delicate

To act her earthly and abhorr’d commands,

Refusing her grand hests, she did confine thee,

By help of her more potent ministers,

And in her most unmitigable rage,

Into a cloven pine; within which rift

Imprison ’d, thou didst painfully remain

A dozen years; within which space she died

And left thee there, where thou didst vent thy groans

As fast as mill-wheels strike. Then was this island,—

Save for the son that she did litter here,

A freckled whelp hag-born,—not honour’d with

A human shape.

ARIEL.                                              Yes; Caliban her son.

PROSPERO. Dull thing, I say so; he that Caliban,

Whom now I keep in service. Thou best know’st

What torment I did find thee in; thy groans

Did make wolves howl and penetrate the breasts

Of ever-angry bears; it was a torment

To lay upon the damn’d, which Sycorax

Could not again undo; it was mine art,

When I arriv’d and heard thee, that made gape

The pine, and let thee out.

ARIEL.                                              I thank thee, master.

PROSPERO. If thou more murmur’st, I will rend an oak

And peg thee in his knotty entrails till

Thou hast howl’d away twelve winters.