The direful fpectacle of the wreck, which touch'd
The very virtue of compaffion in thee,
I have with fuch provifion in mine art
So fa ely order'd, that there is no foul,
No, not fo much perdition as an hair,
Betid to any creature in the vessel,

I

Which thou heard'it cry, which thou faw'ft fink: fit down ;

For thou must now know further.

Mira. You have often

Begun to tell me what I am, but stopt,
And left me to a bootlefs inquifition
Concluding, Stay, not yet.

Pro. The hour's now come :

The very minute bids thee ope thine ear:
Obey, and be attentive. Cant thou remember
A time, before we came unto this cell?

I do not think, thou canft; for then thou wast not
Out three years old.

Mira. Certainly, Sir, I can.

Pro. By what? by any other houfe, or perfon? Of any thing the image tell me, that

Hath kept with thy remembrance.

Mira. 'Tis far off;

And rather like a dream, than an assurance

9

:

virtue of Compafion.] Virtue The moft efficacious Part, the energetick Quality; in a like Sense we fay, the Virtue of a Plant is in the Extract. that there is no Soul] Thus the old Edrions 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 10 near the Right, and yet to mifs it is unlucky; the Author probably

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, That this lives in thy mind? what feeft thou elfe In the dark back-ward and abysme of time? If thou remember'it aught, ere thou cam'ft here; How thou cam'ft here, thou may'st.

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.

Mra. 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

And Princefs, no worfe 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 say'st) 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. Please you, further.
Pro. My brother, and thy uncle called Anthonic-
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
The manage of my ftate; (as, at that time,
Through all the fignories it was the firft;
And Profpero the prime Duke, being fo reputed
In dignity; and for the liberal arts,

Without a parallel; thofe being all my ftudy :)
The government I caft upon my brother,

And to my ftate grew ftranger; being transported,

2 Perhaps and thou his only heir.

And

And wrapt in fecret ftudies. Thy falfe uncle
Doft thou attend me?

Mira. Sir, moft heedfully.

Pro. Being once perfected how to grant suits, How to deny them; whom t'advance, and whom To trash for over-topping; new-created

2

The creatures, that were mine; I fay, or chang'd 'em,
Or elle new form'd 'em; having both the key
Of officer and office, fet all hearts i'th' ftate
To what tune pleas'd his ear; that now he was
The ivy, which had hid my princely trunk,
And fuckt my verdure out on't.-Thou attend'ft not.
Mira. O Good Sir, I do.

Pro. I pray thee, mark me.

I thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated
To clofeness, and the bettering of my mind,
With that which, but by being fo retired,
O'er-prized all popular rate, in my falfe brother
Awak'd an evil nature; and my truft,
Like a good parent, did beget of him'
A falfhood in its contrary as great

As my truft was; which had, indeed, no limit,
A confidence fans 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, +

4

Made

Made fuch a Sinner of his Me

mory.

To credit his own lic.] 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 And yet there is no other corre telling of it, lative to which [] can belong

Made fuch a finner of his memory,

To credit his own lie, he did believe

He was, indeed, the Duke; from fubftitution,
And executing th’outward face of royalty,

With all prerogative. Hence his ambition growing-
Doft thou hear?

Mira. Your tale, Sir, would cure deafnefs.

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
Was Dukedom large enough; of temporal royalties
He thinks me now incapable: confederates,
So dry he was for sway, wi'th' 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.

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;
Which was, that he in lieu o'th' premifes,

Of homage, and I know not how much tribute,
Should prefently extirpate me and mine

Out of the Dukedom; and confer fair Milan,
With all the honours, on my brother. Whereon
A treacherous army levy'd, one midnight
Fated to th' purpofe, did An bonio open

The gates of Milan; and, i'th'dead of darkness,
The minifters for the purpofe hurry'd thence
Me, and thy crying self.

Mira. Alack, for pity!

I, not remembring how I cry'd out then,
Will cry it o'er again; it is a hint,

That wrings mine eyes to't.

Pro. Hear a little further,

And then I'll bring thee to the prefent business, Which now's upon's; without the which this story Were most impertinent.

Mira. Why did they not

That hour deftroy us?

Pr. Well demanded, wench;

My tale provokes that question. Dear, they durft not,
So dear the love my people bore me, set

A mark fo bloody on the bufinefs; but
With colours fairer painted their foul ends.
In few, they hurry'd us aboard a bark;
Bore us fome leagues to fea; where they prepar'd
A rotten carcafs of a boat, not rigg❜d,
Nor tackle, fail, nor maft; the very rats
Inftinctively had quit it: there they hoift us
To cry to th' fea, that roar'd to us; to figh
To th' winds, whofe pity, fighing back again,
Did us but loving wrong.

Mira. Alack! what trouble

Was I then to you?

Pro. O a cherubim

Thou waft, that did preferve me: Thou didst smile,

Infufed with a fortitude from heav'n,

When