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Find this grand liquor that hath gilded1 them?—
How cam'st thou in this pickle?
TRIN. I have been in such a pickle, since I saw you
last, that, I fear me, will never out of my bones: I shall not fear fly-blowing.
SEB. Why, how now, Stephano?
STE. O, touch me not: I am not Stephano, but a cramp.
PRO. You'd be king of the Isle, sirrah?
STE. I should have been a sore one then.
ALON. This is as strange a Thing as e'er I look'd on.
PRO. He is as disproportion'd in his manners
As in his shape. Go, sirrah, to my cell:
Take with you your companions; as you look
To have my pardon, trim it handsomely.
CAL. Ay, that I will; and I'll be wise hereafter,
And seek for grace. What a thrice double ass
Was I, to take this drunkard for a god,
And worship this dull fool!
Go to; away!
ALON. Hence, and bestow your luggage where you
SEB. Or stole it, rather.
[Exeunt CAL., STEPH., and TRIN.
PRO. Sir, I invite your Highness, and your train,
To my poor cell: where you shall take your rest
For this one night; which (part of it) I'll waste
With such discourse, as, I not doubt, shall make it
Go quick away: the story of my life,
And the particular accidents, gone by,
Since I came to this Isle. And in the morn,
I'll bring you to your ship, and so to Naples,
Where I have hope to see the nuptial
Of these our dear-belov'd solemnized;
And thence retire me to my Milan, where
Every third thought shall be my grave.
To hear the story of your life, which must
Take the ear strangely.
I'll deliver all,
And promise you calm seas, auspicious gales,
1 (slang) tipsified.
And sail so expeditious it shall catch
Your royal fleet far off.-My Ariel-Chick,
That is thy charge. Then to the Elements
Be free, and fare thou well! Please you, draw near.
SPOKEN BY PROSPERO.
Now my charms are all o'erthrown,
And what strength I have's mine own,
Which is most faint. Now, 'tis true,
I must be here confin'd by you,
Or sent to Naples. Let me not,
Since I have my Dukedom got,
And pardon'd the deceiver, dwell
In this bare Island, by your spell;
But release me from my bands
With the help of your good hands.1
Gentle breath of your's my sails
Must fill, or else my project fails,
Which was to please you. Now I want
Sprites to enforce, Art to enchant,
And my ending is despair,
Unless I be reliev'd by prayer,
Which pierces so that it assaults
Mercy itself, and frees all faults.