The works of John Dryden, now first collected in eighteen volumes. Volume 03Dryden, John
General
The works of John Dryden, now first collected in eighteen volumes. Volume 03
Dryden, John
English drama -- 17th century
_Prosp._ Say how thou hast disposed the mariners
Of the duke's ship, and all the rest o'the fleet?
_Ariel._ Safely in harbour
Is the duke's ship; in the deep nook, where once
Thou called'st me up, at midnight, to fetch dew
From the still vexed Bermoothes, there she's hid;
The mariners all under hatches stowed;
Whom, with a charm, joined to their suffered labour,
I have left asleep: And for the rest o'the fleet,
Which I dispersed, they all have met again,
And are upon the Mediterranean float,
Bound sadly home for Italy;
Supposing that they saw the duke's ship wrecked,
And his great person perish.
_Prosp._ Ariel, thy charge
Exactly is performed: But there's more work;--
What is the time o'the day?
_Ariel._ Past the mid season.
_Prosp._ At least two glasses.
The time 'tween six and now must by us both
Be spent most preciously.
_Ariel._ Is there more toil?
Since thou dost give me pains, let me remember
Thee what thou hast promised, which is not yet
Performed me.
_Prosp._ How now, moody!
What is't thou canst demand?
_Ariel._ My liberty.
_Prosp._ Before the time be out?--no more!
_Ariel._ I pr'ythee,
Remember I have done thee faithful service;
Told thee no lies; made thee no mistakings;
Served without or grudge, or grumblings;
Thou didst promise to bate me a full year.
_Prosp._ Dost thou forget
From what a torment I did free thee?
_Ariel._ No.
_Prosp._ Thou dost; and think'st it much to tread the ooze
Of the salt deep;
To run against the sharp wind of the north;
To do my business in the veins of the earth,
When it is baked with frost.
_Ariel._ I do not, sir.
_Prosp._ 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.
_Prosp._ Thou hast! Where was she born? Speak, tell me.
_Ariel._ Sir, in Argier.
_Prosp._ Oh, was she so!--I must,
Once every month, recount what thou hast been,
Which thou forgettest. This damned Witch Sycorax,
For mischiefs manifold, and sorceries
Too terrible to enter human hearing,
From Argier, thou know'st, was banished:
But, for one thing she did,
They would not take her life.--Is not this true?
_Ariel._ Ay, sir.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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