The government I cast upon my brother,And to my state grew stranger, being transported
And rapt in secret studies. Thy false uncle—
Dost thou attend me?
MIRANDA.
Sir, most heedfully.
PROSPERO.
Being once perfected how to grant suits,
How to deny them, who t’ advance, and who
To trash for overtopping; new created
The creatures that were mine, I say, or chang’d ‘em,
Or else new form’d ‘em: having both the key
Of officer and office, set all hearts i’ th’ state
To what tune pleas’d his ear: that now he was
The ivy which had hid my princely trunk,
And suck’d my verdure out on’t.—Thou attend’st not.
MIRANDA.
O, good sir! I do.
PROSPERO.
I pray thee, mark me.
I thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated
To closeness and the bettering of my mind
With that, which, but by being so retir’d,
O’er-priz’d all popular rate, in my false brother
Awak’d an evil nature; and my trust,
Like a good parent, did beget of him
A falsehood, in its contrary as great
As my trust was; which had indeed no limit,
A confidence sans bound. He being thus lorded,
Not only with what my revenue yielded,
But what my power might else exact,—like one
Who having, into truth, by telling of it,
Made such a sinner of his memory,
To credit his own lie,—he did believe
He was indeed the Duke; out o’ the substitution,
And executing th’ outward face of royalty,
With all prerogative.—Hence his ambition growing—
Dost thou hear?
MIRANDA.
Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.
PROSPERO.
To have no screen between this part he play’d
And him he play’d it for, he needs will be
Absolute Milan. Me, poor man—my library
Was dukedom large enough: of temporal royalties
He thinks me now incapable; confederates,—
So dry he was for sway,—wi’ th’ King of Naples
To give him annual tribute, do him homage;
Subject his coronet to his crown, and bend
The dukedom, yet unbow’d—alas, poor Milan!—
To most ignoble stooping.
MIRANDA.
O the heavens!
PROSPERO.
Mark his condition, and the event; then tell me
If this might be a brother.
MIRANDA.
I should sin
To think but nobly of my grandmother:
Good wombs have borne bad sons.
PROSPERO.
Now the condition.
This King of Naples, being an enemy
To me inveterate, hearkens my brother’s suit;
Which was, that he, in lieu o’ the premises
Of homage and I know not how much tribute,
Should presently extirpate me and mine
Out of the dukedom, and confer fair Milan,
With all the honours on my brother: whereon,
A treacherous army levied, one midnight
Fated to the purpose, did Antonio open
The gates of Milan; and, i’ th’ dead of darkness,
The ministers for th’ purpose hurried thence
Me and thy crying self.
MIRANDA.
Alack, for pity!
I, not rememb’ring how I cried out then,
Will cry it o’er again: it is a hint
That wrings mine eyes to’t.
PROSPERO.
Hear a little further,
And then I’ll bring thee to the present business
Which now’s upon us; without the which this story
Were most impertinent.
MIRANDA.
Wherefore did they not
That hour destroy us?
PROSPERO.
Well demanded, wench:
My tale provokes that question. Dear, they durst not,
So dear the love my people bore me, nor set
A mark so bloody on the business; but
With colours fairer painted their foul ends.
In few, they hurried us aboard a bark,
Bore us some leagues to sea, where they prepared
A rotten carcass of a boat, not rigg’d,
Nor tackle, sail, nor mast: the very rats
