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Hast thou, spirit, Perform'd to point the tempest that I bade thee?
the king's son, Ferdinand, With hair up-staring,—then like reeds, not hair,— Was the first man that leap'd; cried, 'Hell is empty And all the devils are here.'
Ariel, thy charge Exactly is perform'd: but there's more work. What is the time o' the day?
Is there more toil? Since thou dost give me pains, Let me remember thee what thou hast promised, Which is not yet perform'd me.
Then was this island— Save for the son that she did litter here, A freckled whelp hag-born—not honour'd with A human shape.
Go make thyself like a nymph o' the sea: be subject To no sight but thine and mine, invisible To every eyeball else.
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