MIRANDA O, the heavens! What foul play had we that we came from thence? Or blessed was’t we did?

PROSPERO Both, both, my girl.

By foul play, as thou say’st, were we heav’d thence; But blessedly holp hither.

MIRANDA O, my heart bleeds To think o’ th’ teen that I have turn’d you to, Which is from my remembrance. Please you, farther.

PROSPERO My brother and thy uncle, call’d AntonioI pray thee, mark me that a brother should Be so perfidious. He, whom next thyself Of all the world I lov’d, and to him put The manage of my state; as at that time Through all the signories it was the first, And Prospero the prime duke, being so reputed In dignity, and for the liberal arts Without a parallel, those being all my studyThe 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 over-topping, 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’ th’ 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 th’ 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.