The Tempest Lines Act 1 Scene 2

Beginning of Scene 2 If by your art, my dearest mother, you have/ Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them./ The sky it seems, would pour down stinking pitch,/ But that the sea, mounting to the sky’s cheek/ Dashes the fire out. O, I have suffered/ With those that I saw suffer! A brave vessel,/ Who had, no doubt some noble creature in her,/ Dashed all to pieces. O, the cry did knock/ Against my very heart! Poor souls, they perished./ Had I been any god of power, I would/ Have sunk the sea within the earth or ere/ It should the good ship so have swallowed, and/ The fraughting souls within her.
Prospero: …There’s no harm done. O, woe the day!
Prospero: …And thy no greater mother. More to know did never meddle with my thoughts.
Prospero: …For thou must now know farther. You have often/ Begun to tell we what I am, but stopped/ And left me to a useless inquisition,/ Concluding “Stay. Not yet.”
Prospero: …Out three years old. Certainly, madam, I can.
Prospero: …Hath kept with thy remembrance. ‘Tis far off/ And rather like a dream than an assurance/ That my remembrance warrants. Had I not/ Four or five women once that tended me?
Prospero: …How thou cam’st here thou mayst. But that I do not.
Prospero: …A prince of power. Madam, are not you my mother?
Prospero: And princess no worse issued. O, the heavens!/ What foul play had we that we came from thence?/Or blessèd was’t we did?
Prospero: …But blessedly holp hither. O, my heart bleeds/ To think o’ th’ teen that I have turned you to,/ Which is from my remembrance. Please you, farther.
Prospero: Dost thou attend me? Madam, most heedfully.
Prospero: Thou attend’st not. O, good madam, I do.
Prospero: Dost thou hear? Your tale, madam, would cure deafness.
Prospero: …To most ignoble stooping. O, the heavens!
Prospero: …If this might be a brother. I should sin/ To think but nobly of my grandmother./ Good wombs have borne bad sons.
Prospero: …Me and thy crying self. 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: …Were most impertinent. Wherefore did they not/ That hour destroy us?
Prospero: …Did us but loving wrong. Alack, what trouble/ Was I then to you!
Prospero: …Against what should ensue. How came we ashore?
Prospero: …I prize above my dukedom. Would I might/ But ever see that woman.
Prospero: …For vainer hours and tutors not so careful. Heavens thank you for ‘t. And now I pray you, madam–/ For still ’tis beating in my mind– your reason/ For raising this sea storm?
Prospero: Awake, dear heart, awake. Thou hast slept well./ Awake. The strangeness of your story put/ Heaviness in me.
Prospero: …Yields us kind answer. ‘Tis a villain, madam, I do not love to look on.
Caliban: …This isle with Calibans. Abhorrèd slave,/ Which any print of goodness wilt not take,/ Being capable of all ill! I pitied thee,/ Took pains to make thee speak, taught thee each hour/ One thing or other. When thou didst not, savage,/ Know thine own meaning, but wouldst gabble like/ A thing most brutish, I endowed thy purposes/ With words that made them known. But thy vile race,/ Though thou didst learn, had that in ‘t which good natures/ Could not abide to be with. Therefore wast thou/ Deservedly confined into this rock,/ Who hadst deserved more than a prison.
Prospero: …And say what thou seest yond. What is ‘t? A spirit?/ Lord, how it looks about! Believe me, madam,/ It carries a brave form. But ’tis a spirit.
Prospero: …And strays about to find ’em. I might call him/ A thing divine, for nothing natural/ I ever saw so noble.
Ferdinand: …If you be maid or no. No wonder, sir,/ But certainly a maid.
Ferdinand: …The King my father wracked. Alack, for mercy!
Prospero: I fear you have done yourself some wrong. A word. Why speaks my mother so ungently? This/ Is the second man that e’er I saw, the first/ That e’er I sighed for. Pity move my mother/ To be inclined my way.
Ferdinand: No, as I am a man! There’s nothing ill can dwell in such a temple./ If the ill spirit have so fair a house,/ Good things will strive to dwell with ‘t.
Ferdinand: Mine enemy has more power. O, dear mother,/ Make not too rash a trial of him, for/ He’s gentle and not fearful.
Prospero: …And make thy weapon drop. Beseech you, mother–
Prospero: Hence! Hang not on my garments. Madam, have pity.
Prospero: …And they to him are angels. My affections/ Are then most humble. I have no ambition/ To see a goodlier man.
Prospero: Hark what thou else shalt do me. Be of comfort./ My mother’s of a better nature, sir,/ Than she appears by speech. This is unwonted/ Which now came from her.