JUNO How does my bounteous sister? Go with me To bless this twain, that they may prosperous be, And honour’d in their issue.

[They sing] JUNO Honour, riches, marriage-blessing, Long continuance, and increasing, Hourly joys be still upon you!

Juno sings her blessings on you.

CERES Earth’s increase, foison plenty, Barns and gamers never empty; Vines with clust’ring bunches growing, Plants with goodly burden bowing; Spring come to you at the farthest, In the very end of harvest!

Scarcity and want shall shun you, Ceres’ blessing so is on you.

FERDINAND This is a most majestic vision, and Harmonious charmingly. May I be bold To think these spirits? PROSPERO Spirits, which by mine art I have from their confines call’d to enact My present fancies.

FERDINAND Let me live here ever; So rare a wond’red father and a wise Makes this place Paradise.

[JUNO and CERES whisper, and send IRIS on employment]

PROSPERO Sweet now, silence; Juno and Ceres whisper seriously.

There’s something else to do; hush, and be mute, Or else our spell is marr’d.

IRIS You nymphs, call’d Naiads, of the wind’ring brooks, With your sedg’d crowns and ever harmless looks, Leave your crisp channels, and on this green land Answer your summons; Juno does command.

Come, temperate nymphs, and help to celebrate A contract of true love; be not too late.

Enter certain NYMPHS You sun-burnt sicklemen, of August weary, Come hither from the furrow, and be merry; Make holiday; your rye-straw hats put on, And these fresh nymphs encounter every one In country footing. Enter certain REAPERS, properly habited; they join with the NYMPHS in a graceful dance; towards the end whereof PROSPERO starts suddenly, and speaks, after which, to a strange, hollow, and confused noise, they heavily vanish PROSPERO [Aside] I had forgot that foul conspiracy Of the beast Caliban and his confederates Against my life; the minute of their plot Is almost come.

[To the SPIRITS] Well done; avoid; no more! FERDINAND This is strange; your father’s in some passion That works him strongly. MIRANDA Never till this day Saw I him touch’d with anger so distemper’d. PROSPERO You do look, my son, in a mov’d sort, As if you were dismay’d; be cheerful, sir.