_Ari._ Is there more toil? Since thou dost give me pains, Let me remember[382-72] thee what thou hast promised, Which is not yet perform'd[382-73] me. _Pros._ How now! moody? What is't thou canst demand? _Ari._ My liberty. _Pros._ Before the time be out? no more![382-74] _Ari._ I pr'ythee, Remember I have done thee worthy service; Told thee no lies, made no mistakings, served Without or grudge or grumblings: thou didst promise To bate me a full year.[382-75] _Pros._ Dost thou forget From what a torment I did free thee? _Ari._ No. _Pros._ 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' the earth when it is baked with frost.[383-76] _Ari._ I do not, sir. _Pros._ Thou liest, malignant thing![383-77] Hast thou forgot The foul witch Sycorax, who with age and envy[383-78] Was grown into a hoop? hast thou forgot her? _Ari._ No, sir. _Pros._ Thou hast: where was she born? speak; tell me. _Ari._ Sir, in Argier.[383-79] _Pros._ O, was she so? I must Once in a month recount what thou hast been, Which thou forgett'st. This damn'd witch Sycorax, For mischiefs manifold, and sorceries terrible To enter human hearing, from Argier, Thou know'st, was banish'd. Is not this true? _Ari._ Ay, sir. _Pros._ This blue-eyed hag[383-80] was hither brought, And here was left by th' sailors. Thou, my slave, As thou report'st thyself, wast then her servant; And, for[383-81] thou wast a spirit too delicate To act her earthy and abhorr'd commands, Refusing her grand hests,[384-82] she did confine thee, By help of her more potent ministers, And in her most unmitigable rage, Into[384-83] 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,[384-84] A freckled whelp, hag-born--not honour'd with A human shape. _Ari._ Yes, Caliban her son. _Pros._ 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 arrived and heard thee, that made gape The pine, and let thee out. _Ari._ I thank thee, master. _Pros._ If thou more murmur'st, I will rend an oak, And peg thee in his knotty entrails, till Thou'st howl'd away twelve Winters.