Prospero
Hence! hang not on my garments.
Miranda
Sir, have pity;
I’ll be his surety.
Prospero
Silence! one word more
Shall make me chide thee, if not hate thee. What!
An advocate for an impostor! hush!
Thou think’st there is no more such shapes as he,
Having seen but him and Caliban: foolish wench!
To the most of men this is a Caliban
And they to him are angels.
Miranda
My affections
Are then most humble; I have no ambition
To see a goodlier man.
Prospero
Come on; obey:
Thy nerves are in their infancy again
And have no vigour in them.
Ferdinand
My spirits, as in a dream, are all bound up.
My father’s loss, the weakness which I feel,
The wreck of all my friends, nor this man’s threats,
To whom I am subdued, are but light to me,
Might I but through my prison once a day
Behold this maid: all corners else o’ the earth
Let liberty make use of; space enough
Have I in such a prison.