Brick Shakespeare: The Comedies—A Midsummer Night's Dream, The Tempest, Much Ado About Nothing, and The Taming of the Shrew by John McCann, Monica Sweeney, Becky Thomas Read Free Book Online Page B

thence,
    But blessedly holp hither.

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

    PROSPERO
    My brother and thy uncle, call’d Antonio—
    I pray thee, mark me—that a brother should
    Be so perfidious!—he whom next thyself
    Of all the world I loved 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 study,
    The 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 to advance and who
    To trash for over-topping, new created
    The creatures that were mine, I say, or changed ’em,
    Or else new form’d ’em; having both the key
    Of officer and office, set all hearts i’ the state
    To what tune pleased 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 retired,
    O’er-prized all popular rate, in my false brother
    Awaked 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’ the substitution
    And executing the 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’ the 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 the 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.

    PROSPERO
    Now the condition.
    The King of Naples, being an enemy
    To me inveterate, hearkens my brother’s suit;
    Which was, that he, in lieu o’ the premises
    Of homage and I know not how much tribute,
    Should presently extirpate me and mine
    Out of the dukedom and confer fair Milan
    With all the honours on my brother: whereon,
    A treacherous army levied, one midnight
    Fated to the purpose did Antonio open
    The gates of Milan, and, i’ the dead of darkness,
    The ministers for the purpose hurried thence
    Me and thy crying self.

    MIRANDA
    Alack, for pity!
    I, not remembering how I cried out then,
    Will cry it o’er again: it is a hint
    That wrings mine eyes to’t.

    PROSPERO
    Hear a little further
    And then I’ll bring thee to the present business
    Which now’s upon ’s; without the which this story
    Were most impertinent.
    MIRANDA
    Wherefore did they not
    That hour destroy us?

    PROSPERO
    Well demanded, wench:
    My tale provokes that question. Dear, they durst not,
    So dear the love my people bore me, nor set
    A mark so bloody on the business, but
    With colours fairer painted their foul ends.
    In few, they hurried us aboard a bark,
    Bore us some leagues to sea; where they prepared
    A rotten carcass of a boat, not