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Thou art inclined to sleep.

And Thou art Dead, as Young and Fair

I know thou canst not choose. Finally, Prospero explains the reason he created the recent storm: According to the stars, now is the moment of Prospero's good fortune, but his power depends on good timing. I come To answer thy best pleasure. On the topmast, The yards, and bowsprit would I flame distinctly, Then meet and join. The fire and cracks Of sulfurous roaring the most mighty Neptune Seem to besiege and make his bold waves tremble, Yea, his dread trident shake. Who was so firm, so constant, that this coil Would not infect his reason? All but mariners Plunged in the foaming brine and quit the vessel, Then all afire with me.

We find out Ariel was in charge of the details of the tempest. He performed his duties down to the last detail: This, understandably, weirded out everyone on the ship, and while the mariners stayed on deck, everyone else jumped overboard. He folds his arms. Ariel then saw to it that they all made it ashore unharmed, but in separate groups. Most importantly, the King's son was separated from the rest of the group. Ariel left the mariners on their newly restored ship in an enchanted sleep, and sent the other vessels in the fleet back to Naples. Since thou dost give me pains, Let me remember thee what thou hast promised, Which is not yet performed me.

Thou did promise To bate me a full year. Prospero is glad of Ariel's good work, but demands that there is much more to do in the next four hours. Ariel reminds him then that he's already done lots of good work, and that Prospero promised that when his work was done, he would set the spirit-servant free.

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Essentially, Ariel is saying "Show me the money. Hast thou forgot The foul witch Sycorax, who with age and envy Was grown into a hoop? Hast thou forgot her? For one thing she did They would not take her life. Is not this true? Prospero flies into something of a rage. It seems this Sycorax was born in Algiers and banished from there because of her sorcery. She wasn't killed, probably because she was pregnant, but she was banished to the island, with Ariel as her servant.

Then was this island Save for the son that she did litter here, A freckled whelp, hag-born not honored with A human shape. Thy groans Did make wolves howl, and penetrate the breasts Of ever-angry bears. It was a torment To lay upon the damned, which Sycorax Could not again undo.

It was mine art, When I arrived and heard thee, that made gape The pine and let thee out. Ariel was apparently too "delicate" to do the horrible things Sycorax commanded, so she had a fit and imprisoned Ariel in the cleft of a pine tree, where he stayed rather stuck for twelve years. That's when Prospero came to the island to find the loud, sad, unearthly moans of Ariel coming from a tree.

By that time, Sycorax was long dead, and it was Prospero's magic that freed Ariel from the tree. That's when he committed Ariel to his service, with the promise of eventual liberty. I will be correspondent to command And do my spriting gently. After Prospero tells this long story, he chides Ariel that any more whining will get him locked back into the tree.

However, if Ariel behaves, Prospero will free him in two days, once all the work is done. The rest of the play actually takes place over the course of about four hours not two days. Literary critics have a fancy name for this—the " unities " of time and place. What shall I do? Be subject To no sight but thine and mine, invisible To every eyeball else. Go, hence with diligence! Prospero sends Ariel off in the shape of an invisible water nymph we don't know either , and wakes Miranda.

Poor Miranda doesn't know that he used his magic to put her to sleep—she thinks his story just made her tired.

The Tempest: Act 1, Scene 2 Translation

She says she can't stand to look at Caliban. He does make our fire, Fetch in our wood, and serves in offices That profit us. My quaint Ariel, Hark in thine ear. He whispers to Ariel. Prospero reminds Miranda that Caliban does all those pesky island chores that nobody else likes to do, like fetch wood and build fires. They'd miss him if he were gone.


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Prospero calls to Caliban, who is reluctant to come out, and then handles one more bit of secretive business with Ariel. Urchins Shall forth at vast of night that they may work All exercise on thee. Prospero again calls for Caliban to come out, this time referring to him as a slave and the child of his witch-hag mother and the devil.

When Caliban comes out of his shack, the insults really fly. Caliban wishes for Prospero and Miranda to break out in blisters all over their bodies, and Prospero says that tonight Caliban will have such bad cramps it will be worse than being stung by a bunch of bees. Caliban reveals that he's bitter because he thinks Prospero has treated him unfairly.

This island should be Caliban's—he was here first. When Prospero first arrived, he initially took Caliban in, fed him, and taught him to speak. Caliban loved Prospero so that he showed him all the secrets of the island, and then Prospero made him a slave and restricted him to a small rocky part of the island, while Prospero and Miranda enjoyed the rest of it. Thou didst prevent me. I had peopled else This isle with Calibans. In fact, he even admits that he was trying to populate the island with a bunch of little Calibandas or maybe Miracals.

I pitied thee, Took pains to make thee speak, taught thee each hour One thing or other. When thou didst not, savage, Know thine own meaning, but wouldst gabble like A thing most brutish, I endowed thy purposes With words that made them known. Therefore wast thou Deservedly confined into this rock, Who hadst deserved more than a prison. Needless to say, Miranda's not real fond of Caliban.

She helped him learn to speak and he tried to violate her. She thinks he deserves to be confined to his rock. The red plague rid you For learning me your language! Reading beyond Sonnet The Art of Shakespeare's Sonnets. Belknap-Harvard University Press, With Three Hundred Years of Commentary. Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, New Haven and London: Yale University Press, Folger Shakespeare Library Chelsea House Publishers, A Companion to Shakespeare's Sonnets.

Such Is My Love: A Study of Shakespeare's Sonnets. University Of Chicago Press, Sex and society in Shakespeare's age Simon Foreman the astrologer. First edition and facsimile Shakespeare, William Lee, Sidney , ed. Being a reproduction in facsimile of the first edition. Variorum editions Alden, Raymond Macdonald , ed.


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  • The Sonnets of Shakespeare. Rollins, Hyder Edward , ed. A New Variorum Edition of Shakespeare: The Sonnets [2 Volumes]. Modern critical editions Atkins, Carl D. Fairleigh Dickinson University Press. Booth, Stephen , ed. The Complete Sonnets and Poems. Duncan-Jones, Katherine , ed. The New Cambridge Shakespeare. Kerrigan, John , ed. New Penguin Shakespeare Rev. Orgel, Stephen , ed. The Pelican Shakespeare Rev. Vendler, Helen , ed. The Passionate Pilgrim To the Queen. Retrieved from " https: XV When I consider every thing that grows Holds in perfection but a little moment, That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows Whereon the stars in secret influence comment XVI To give away yourself, keeps yourself still, And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.

    Thou art more lovely and more temperate XIX Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws, And make the earth devour her own sweet brood; Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws, And burn the long-liv'd phoenix, in her blood Yet, do thy worst old Time: Their images I lov'd, I view in thee, And thou — all they — hast all the all of me. XXXII If thou survive my well-contented day, When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover, And shalt by fortune once more re-survey These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover, Compare them with the bettering of the time, And though they be outstripp'd by every pen, Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme, Exceeded by the height of happier men.

    I have no precious time at all to spend, Nor services to do, till you require. LX Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth, And delves the parallels in beauty's brow, Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth, And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow LXIV This thought is as a death which cannot choose But weep to have, that which it fears to lose.

    LXXIII That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. There lives more life in one of your fair eyes Than both your poets can in praise devise. The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing; My bonds in thee are all determinate.

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    XCI And having thee, of all men's pride I boast: Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take All this away and me most wretched make. XCIV They that have power to hurt and will do none, That do not do the thing they most do show, Who, moving others, are themselves as stone, Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow: What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen! CI Truth needs no colour, with his colour fixed; Beauty no pencil, beauty's truth to lay; But best is best, if never intermixed? Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb?

    Excuse not silence so, for't lies in thee CII My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming; I love not less, though less the show appear; That love is merchandiz'd, whose rich esteeming, The owner's tongue doth publish every where.

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    CVI For we, which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise. CVII Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul Of the wide world dreaming on things to come, Can yet the lease of my true love control, Supposed as forfeit to a confin'd doom. If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. I grant I never saw a goddess go, — My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground: CXLI In faith I do not love thee with mine eyes, For they in thee a thousand errors note; But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise, Who, in despite of view, is pleased to dote.

    CXLVI Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, [Fool'd by] these rebel powers that thee array, Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth, Painting thy outward walls so costly gay? CXLVII Past cure I am, now Reason is past care, And frantic-mad with evermore unrest; My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are, At random from the truth vainly express'd; For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright, Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

    CL If thy unworthiness rais'd love in me, More worthy I to be belov'd of thee. CLI Love is too young to know what conscience is, Yet who knows not conscience is born of love?