Page 1051 - Shakespeare - Vol. 4

What! I say,
My foot my tutor? Put thy sword up, traitor;
Who mak’st a show, but dar’st not strike, thy conscience
Is so possess’d with guilt: come from thy ward;

For I can here disarm thee with this stick [475]
And make thy weapon drop.

MIRANDA
Beseech you, father.

PROSPERO
Hence! hang not on my garments.

MIRANDA
Sir, have pity;

I’ll be his surety.

PROSPERO

Silence! one word more
Shall make me chide thee, if not hate thee. What!
An advocate for an impostor! hush! [480]
Thou think’st there is no more such shapes as he,

Having seen but him and Caliban: foolish wench!
To th’ most of men this is a Caliban,
And they to him are angels.

MIRANDA
My affections

Are then most humble; I have no ambition [485]
To see a goodlier man.

PROSPERO
Come on; obey:
Thy nerves are in their infancy again,
And have no vigour in them.

FERDINAND