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THE TEMPEST
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 rigg’d,
Nor tackle, sail, nor mast; the very rats
Instinctively had quit it: there they hoist us,
To cry to the sea that roar’d to us, to sigh
To the winds whose pity, sighing back again,
Did us but loving wrong.

Miranda.

Did us but loving wrong. Alack, what trouble
Was I then to you!

Prospero.

Was I then to you! O, a cherubin
Thou wast that did preserve me. Thou didst smile,
Infused with a fortitude from heaven,
When I have deck’d the sea with drops full salt,
Under my burthen groan’d; which raised in me
An undergoing stomach, to bear up
Against what should ensue.

Miranda.

Against what should ensue. How came we ashore?

Prospero.

By Providence divine.
Some food we had and some fresh water that
A noble Neapolitan, Gonzalo,