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 pine and let thee out.
Twelve years ago, Miranda, twelve years ago your father was the Duke of Milan, a powerful prince.
I took good care of you—piece of filth that you are—and let you stay in my own hut until you tried to rape my daughter.
Flesh and blood, You brother mine, that entertained ambition, Expelled remorse and nature, whom, with Sebastian, Whose inward pinches therefore are most strong, Would here have killed your king—I do forgive thee, Unnatural though thou art.
But this rough magicI here abjure, and, when I have required.Some heavenly music, which even now I do,To work mine end upon their senses that.This airy charm is for, I'll break my staff, Bury it certain fathoms in the earth,And deeper than did ever plummet soundI'll drown my book.
Give me your hands. May anyone who doesn’t wish you joy feel grief and sorrow.