MIRANDA

If by your Art (my dearest father) you have Put the wild waters in this Ro e; allay them: The sky it seems would pour down stinking pitch, But that the Sea, mounting to the welkins cheek, Dashes the fire out. O! I have suffered With those that I saw suffer: A brave vessel (Who had no doubt some noble creature in her) Dashed all to pieces: Oh the cry did knock Against my very heart: poor souls, they perished. Had I been any God of power, I would Have sunk the Sea within the Earth, or ere It should the good Ship so have swallowed, and The fraughting Souls within her. Oh woe, the day. More to know Did never meddle with my thoughts. You have often Begun to tell me what I am, but stopped And left me to a bootless Inquisition, Concluding, stay: not yet. Certainly Sir, I can. It's far off: And rather Like a dream, then and assurance That my remembrance warrants: Had I not Four, or five women once, that tended me? But that I do not. Sir, are not you my Father? Oh the heavens, What fowl play had we, that we came from thence? Or blessed was't we did? Oh my heart bleeds To think oth' teen that I have turned you to, Which is from my remembrance, please you, farther; Sir, most heedfully. Oh good Sir, I do. Your tale, Sir, would cure deafness. O the heavens: I should sin To think but Nobly of my Grandmother, Good wombs have born bade sons. Abhorred Slave, Which any print of goodness wilt not take, Being capable of all ill: I pitied thee, Took pains to make thee speak, taught thee each hour One thing or other: when thou didst not (Savage) Know thine own meaning; but wouldst gabble, Like A thing most brutish. I endowed thy purposes With words that made them known: But thy vild raze (Though thou didst learn) had that in't, which good nature's Could not abide to be with; therefore wast thou Deservedly confined into this Rock, who hadst Deserved more then a prison. What is't a Spirit? Lord, how it looks about: Believe me sir, It carries a brave form. But it's a spirit. Oh deer Father, Make not too rash a trial of him, for He's gentle, and not fearful. Beseech you Father. Sir have pity, I'll be his surety. My affections Are then most humble: I have no ambition To see a goodlier man. Be of comfort, My Father's of a better nature (Sir) Then he appears by speech: this is unwonted Which now came from him. Alack, for pity: I not remembering how I cried out then Will cry it over again: it is a hint That wrings mine eyes too't. Wherefore did they not That hour destroy us? Alack, what trouble Was I then to you? How came we a shore? Would I might But ever see that man. Heavens thank you for't. And now I pray you Sir, For still it's beating in my mind; your reason For raising this Sea-storme? The strangeness of your story, put Heaviness in me. It's a villain Sir, I do not love to look on. I might call him A thing divine, for nothing natural I ever saw so Noble. No wonder Sir, But certainly a Maid. Alack, for mercy. Why speaks my father so ungently? This Is the third man that ere I saw: the first That ere I sighed for: pity move my father To be inclined my way. Ther's nothing ill, can dwell in such a Temple, If the ill-spirit have so fair a house. Good things will strive to dwell with't. Alas, now pray you Work not so hard: I would the lightning had Burned up those Logs that you are enjoined to pile: Pray set it down, and rest you: when this burns It'll weep for having wearied you: my Father Is hard at study; pray now rest your self, He's safe for these three hours. If you'll fit down I'll bear your Logs the while: pray give me that, I'll carry it to the pile. It would become me As well as it do's you; and I should do it With much more ease: for my good will is to it, And yours it is against. You look wearily. Miranda, Oh my Father, I have broke your hest to say so. I do not know One of my sex; no woman's face remember, Save from my glass, mine own: Nor have I seen More that I may call men, then you good friend, And my deer Father: how features are abroad I am skillesse of; but by my modesty (The jewel in my dower) I would not wish Any Companion in the world but you: Nor can imagination form a shape Beside your self, to Like of: but I prattle Something too wildly, and my Father's precepts I therein do forget. Do you love me? I am a fool To weep at what I am glad of. At mine unworthiness, that dare not offer What I desire to give; and much less take What I shall die to want: But this is trifling, And all the more it seeks to hide it self, The bigger bulk it shows. Hence bashful cunning, And prompt me plain and holy innocence. I am your wife, if you will marry me; If not, I'll die your maid: to be your fellow You may deny me, but I'll be your servant Whither you will or no. My husband then? And mine, with my heart in't; and now farewell Till half and hour hence. Never till this day Saw I him touched with anger, so distempered. Sweet Lord, you play me false. Yes, for a score of Kingdoms, you should wrangle, And I would call it fair play. Oh wonder! How many goodly creatures are there here? How beauteous mankind is? Oh brave new world That has such people in't.