The direful spectacle of the wreck, which touch'd Which thou heard'st cry, which thou saw'st sink: sit down ; For thou must now know further. Mira. You have often Begun to tell we what I am, but stopt, Pro. The hour's now come: The very minute bids thee ope thine ear: I do not think, thou canst; for then thou wast not Mira. Certainly, Sir, I can, Pro. By what? by any other house, or person? Of any thing the image tell me, that Hath kept with thy remembrance, Mira. 'Tis far off; And rather like a dream, than an affurance 9 virtue of Compaffion.] Virtue: The most efficacious Part, the energetick Quality; in a like Senfe we fay, the Virtue of a Plant is in the Extract. I- that there is no Scul.] Thus the old Editions read, but this is apparently defective. Mr, Rowe, and after him Dr. Warburton, read that there is no Soul loft, without any Notice of the Variation. Mr. Theobald fubftitutes no foil, and Mr. Pope follows him. To come fo near the Right, and yet to mifs it is unlucky; the Author probably wrote no Soil, no Stain, no Spot: For fo Ariel tells, Not a Hair perifh'd; On their fuftaining Garments not a Blemish, But fresher than before, And Gonzalo, The Rarity of it is, that our Garments being drench'd in the Sea, keep notwithstanding their Freshness and Gloffes. Of this Emendation I find that the Author of Notes on the Tempest had a Glimpfe, but could not keep it. That That my remembrance warrants. Had I not Four or five women once, that tended me? Pro. Thou hadft, and more, Miranda: but how is it, If thou remember'ft aught, ere thou cam'ft here Mira. But that I do not. Pro. 'Tis twelve years fince, Miranda. Twelve years fince, Thy father was the Duke of Milan, and A Prince of Pow'r. Mira. Sir, are not you my father? Pro. Thy Mother was a piece of virtue, and She faid, thou waft my daughter; and thy father Was Duke of Milan, and his only heir 2 And Princess, no worse iffu'd. Mira. O the heav'ns! What foul play had we, that we came from thence ? Or bleffed was't, we did? Pro. Both, both, my girl: By foul play (as thou fay'ft) were we heav'd thence; But bleffedly holp hither. Mira. O, my heart bleeds To think o'th' teene that I have turn'd you to. Which is from my remembrance. Pleafe you, further. Pro. My brother, and thy uncle, called Anthonio I pray thee, mark me;-that a brother should Be fo perfidious!he whom next thyself Of all the world I lov'd, and to him put Without a parallel; thofe being all my study 1) And to my state grew ftranger; being transported, 2 Perhaps and thou his only heir, And uncle→→→→ And rapt in fecret ftudies. Thy false uncle Mira. Sir, moft heedfully. Pro. Being once perfected how to grant fuits, The creatures, that were mine; I fay, or chang'd'em, Pro. I pray thee, mark me. I thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated As my trust was; which had, indeed, no limit, 2 Key in this Place feems to fignify the Key of a mufical Inftrument, by which he fet Hearts to tune. 3 Alluding to the Obfervation, that a Father above the common rate of Men has commonly a Son below it. Heroum filii noxa. 4 like one Made Made fuch a Sinner of bis Me mory, To credit his own lie.] The corrupted reading of the Second line has rendered this beautiful Similitude quite unintelligible. For what is having into truth]? or what doth [it] refer to not to [truth], because if he told truth he could never credit a lie. Who having INTO Truth by tell. And yet there is no other correing of it, lative to which [it] can belong. Made fuch a finner of his memory, To credit his own lie, he did believe He was, indeed, the Duke; from fubftitution, With all prerogative. Hence his ambition growingDoft thou hear? Mira. Your tale, Sir, would cure deafness. Pro. To have no fcreen between this part he plaid, And him he plaid it for, he needs will be Abfolute Milan. Me, poor man!my library Mira. O the heav'ns! Pro. Mark his condition, and th'event; then tell me, If this might be a Brother. Mira. I fhould fin, To think but nobly of my grandmother; Good wombs have bore bad fons. Pro. Now the condition: This King of Naples, being an enemy To me inveterate, hearkens my brother's fuit; Of homage, and I know not how much tribute, The gates of Milan; and, i'th'dead of darkness, Mira. Alack, for pity! I, not remembring how I cry'd out then, That wrings mine eyes to't. Pro. Hear a little further, And then I'll bring thee to the present bufinefs, Which now's upon's; without the which this ftory Were most impertinent. Mira. Why did they not That hour destroy us? Pro. Well demanded, wench; My tale provokes that queftion. Dear, they durft not, A mark fo bloody on the business; but Mira. Alack! what trouble Was I then to you? Pro. O a cherubim Thou waft, that did preferve me: Thou didst fmile, Infufed with a fortitude from heav'n, When |