Pro. How? the best? What wer't thou if the King of Naples heard thee? Fer. A single thing, as I am now, that wonders To heare thee speake of Naples: he do's heare me, And that he do's, I weepe: my selfe am Naples, Who, with mine eyes (neuer since at ebbe) beheld The King my Father wrack't Mir. Alacke, for mercy Fer. Yes faith, & all his Lords, the Duke of Millaine And his braue sonne, being twaine Pro. The Duke of Millaine And his more brauer daughter, could controll thee If now 'twere fit to do't: At the first sight They haue chang'd eyes: Delicate Ariel, Ile set thee free for this. A word good Sir, I feare you haue done your selfe some wrong: A word Mir. Why speakes my father so vngently? This Is the third man that ere I saw: the first That ere I sigh'd for: pitty moue my father To be enclin'd my way Fer. O, if a Virgin, And your affection not gone forth, Ile make you The Queene of Naples Pro. Soft sir, one word more. They are both in eythers pow'rs: But this swift busines I must vneasie make, least too light winning Make the prize light. One word more: I charge thee That thou attend me: Thou do'st heere vsurpe The name thou ow'st not, and hast put thy selfe Vpon this Island, as a spy, to win it From me, the Lord on't Fer. No, as I am a man Mir. Ther's nothing ill, can dwell in such a Temple, If the ill-spirit haue so fayre a house, Good things will striue to dwell with't Pro. Follow me Pros. Speake not you for him: hee's a Traitor: come, Ile manacle thy necke and feete together: Sea water shalt thou drinke: thy food shall be The fresh-brooke Mussels, wither'd roots, and huskes Wherein the Acorne cradled. Follow Fer. No, I will resist such entertainment, till Mine enemy ha's more pow'r. He drawes, and is charmed from mouing. Mira. O deere Father, Make not too rash a triall of him, for Hee's gentle, and not fearfull Pros. What I say, My foote my Tutor? Put thy sword vp Traitor, Who mak'st a shew, but dar'st not strike: thy conscience Is so possest with guilt: Come, from thy ward, For I can heere disarme thee with this sticke, And make thy weapon drop Mira. Beseech you Father Pros. Hence: hang not on my garments Mira. Sir haue pity, Ile be his surety Pros. Silence: One word more Shall make me chide thee, if not hate thee: What, An aduocate for an Impostor? Hush: Thou think'st there is no more such shapes as he, (Hauing seene but him and Caliban:) Foolish wench, To th' most of men, this is a Caliban, And they to him are Angels Mira. My affections Are then most humble: I haue no ambition To see a goodlier man Pros. Come on, obey: Thy Nerues are in their infancy againe. And haue no vigour in them