Full fathom five thy father lies;

Of his bones are coral made;

Those are pearls that were his eyes:

Nothing of him that doth fade,

But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
Hark! now I hear them,-ding-dong, bell.
[Burden, ding-dong.

Fer. The ditty does remember my drowned father:

This is no mortal business, nor no sound
That the earth owes :-I hear it now above me.
Pro. The fringed curtains of thine eye advance,
And say, what thou seest yond'.

Mira.

What is 't? a spirit?

Lord, how it looks about! Believe me, sir,
It carries a brave form :-But 't is a spirit.

Pro. No, wench; it eats and sleeps, and hath

such senses

As we have, such: This gallant, which thou seest,
Was in the wreck; and but he's something stained
With grief, that 's beauty's canker, thou might'st
call him

A goodly person: he hath lost his fellows,
And strays about to find them.

Mira.

I might call him

And his more braver daughter, could control thee,
If now 't were fit to do 't.-At the first sigh.[Aside.
They have changed eyes :-Delicate Ariel,
I'll set thee free for this!-A word, good sir;
I fear you have done yourself some wrong: a word.
Mira. Why speaks my father so ungently? This
Is the third man that e'er I saw; the first
That e'er I sighed for: pity move my father
To be inclined my way!

Are then most humble; I have no ambition To see a goodlier man.

Pro.

Come on; obey: [To FERDINAND. Thy nerves are in their infancy again, And have no vigour in them. So they are:

Fer.

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, or 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.

Thou hast done well, fine Ariel :-Follow me.[To FERDINAND und MIRANDA. Hark, what thou else shalt do me. [TO ARIEL. Be of comfort;

Mira.

My father's of a better nature, sir,
Than he appears by speech; this is unwonted,
Which now came from him.

As mountain winds: but then exactly do

All points of my command.

Adr. Uninhabitable, and almost inaccessible,Seb. Yet

Adr. Yet

Ant. He could not miss it.

Adr. It must needs be of subtle, tender, and delicate temperance.

Ant. Temperance was a delicate wench.

Seb. Ay, and a subtle; as he most learnedly delivered.

Adr. The air breathes upon us here most sweetly,

Seb. As if it had lungs, and rotten ones.
Ant. Or, as 't were perfumed by a fen.
Gon. Here is everything advantageous to life.
Ant. True; save means to live.

Seb. Of that there 's none, or little.

Gon. How lush and lusty the grass looks! how green!

Ant. The ground, indeed, is tawny.

Seb. With an eye of green in 't.

Ant. He misses not much.

Seb. No; he doth but mistake the truth totally. Gon. But the rarity of it is (which is indeed almost beyond credit)

Seb. As many vouched rarities are.

Gon. That our garments, being, as they were, drenched in the sea, hold, notwithstanding, their freshness and glosses; being rather new dyed, than stained with salt water.

Ant. If but one of his pockets could speak, would it not say, he lies?

Seb. Ay, or very falsely pocket up his report. Gon. Methinks our garments are now as fresh as when we put them on first in Africk, at the marriage of the king's fair daughter Claribel to the King of Tunis.

Seb. 'T was a sweet marriage, and we prosper well in our return!

Adr. Tunis was never graced before with such a paragon to their queen.

Gon. Not since Widow Dido's time.

Ant. Widow! a pox o' that! How came that widow in? Widow Dido!

Seb. What if he had said, Widower Æneas too?

the marriage of your daughter, who is now queen. Ant. And the rarest that e'er came there. Seb. 'Bate, I beseech you, Widow Dido. Ant. O, Widow Dido; ay, Widow Dido. Gon. Is not, sir, my doublet as fresh as the first day I wore it? I mean, in a sort.

Ant. That sort was well fished for.

Gon. When I wore it at your daughter's marriage?

Alon. You cram these words into mine ears, against

The stomach of my sense: 'Would I had never
Married my daughter there! for, coming thence,
My son is lost; and, in my rate, she too,
Who is so far from Italy removed,

I ne'er again shall see her. O thou mine heir
Of Naples and of Milan, what strange fish
Hath made his meal on thee!