FERDINAND AND MIRANDA.

Ferdinand bearing a log.

Fer. There be some sports are painful, but their labour
Delight in them sets off: some kinds of baseness
Are nobly undergone, and most poor matters
Point to rich ends. This my mean task would be
As heavy to me as 'tis odious, but

The mistress which I serve quickens what's dead,
And makes my labours pleasures: O, she is
Ten times more gentle than her father's crabb’d;
And he's composed of harshness. I must move
Some thousands of these logs, and pile them up
Upon a sore injunction. My sweet mistress

Weeps when she sees me work, and says, such baseness
Had never like executor; I forget,

Nay these sweet thoughts do ev'n refresh my labour,
Least busy when I do it.

Enter Miranda; and Prospero at a distance, unseen.
Mira. Alas! now, pray you,

Work not so hard; I would the lightning had
Burnt up those logs, that you're enjoin'd to pile :
Pray set it down, and rest you: when this burns,
"Twill weep for having wearied you: my father
Is hard at study; pray now rest yourself;
He's safe for these three hours.

Fer. O, most dear mistress,

The sun will set before I shall discharge
What I must strive to do.

Mira. If you'll sit down

I'll bear your logs the while. Pray give me that,

I'll carry't to the pile.

Fer. No, precious creature,

I'd rather crack my sinews, break my back,

Than you should such dishonour undergo,
While I sit lazy by.

Mira. It would become me

As well as it does you; and I should do it

With much more ease; for my good will is to it,
And yours it is against.

Pros. Poor worm! thou art infected, and

This visitation shows it.

Mira. You look wearily.

Fer. No, noble mistress; 'tis fresh morning with me

When you are by at night. I do beseech you

(Chiefly that I may set it in my prayers),

What is your name?,

Mira. Miranda. O, my father,

I've broke your hest to say so !

Fer. Admir'd Miranda !

Indeed, the top of admiration, worth

What's dearest to the world: full many a lady
I've ey'd with best regard, and many a time
Th' harmony of their tongues hath into bondage
Brought my too diligent ear! for sev'ral virtues
Have I lik'd sev'ral women, never any

With so full soul, but some defect in her
Did quarrel with the noblest grace she own'd,
And put it to the foil. But you, O you,
So perfect, and so peerless, are created
Of ev'ry creature's best.

Mira. I do not know

One of my sex; no woman's face remember,
Save from my glass my own; nor have I seen
More that I may call men than you, good friend,
And my dear father; how features are abroad
I'm skilless of; but by my modesty

(The jewel in my dower), I would not wish
Any companion in the world but you;

Nor can imagination form a shape,

Besides yourself, to like of. But I prattle

Something too wildly, and my father's precepts

I do forget.

Fer. I am, in my condition,

A prince, Miranda; I do think a king

(I would not so); and would no more endure This wooden slavery, than I would suffer

The flesh-fly blow my mouth.

Hear my soul speak;

The very instant that I saw you, did
My heart fly to your service, there resides
To make me slave to it, and for your sake
Am I this patient log-man.

Mira. Do you love me?

Fer. O Heav'n, O Earth, bear witness to this sound,

And crown what I profess with kind event,

If I speak true; if hollowly, invert

What best is boded me to mischief! I,

Beyond all limit of what else i' th' world,
Do love, prize, honour you.

Mira. I am a fool,
To weep at what I'm glad of.

Pros. Fair encounter

Of two most rare affections! Heav'ns rain grace
On that which breeds between 'em.

Fer. Wherefore weep you?

Mira. At mine unworthiness, that dare not offer

What I desire to give; and much less take
What I shall die to want ;- but this is trifling;

And all the more it seeks to hide itself

The bigger bulk it shows. Hence, bashful Cunning, And prompt me plain and holy Innocence!

I am your wife, if you will marry me;

If not I'll die your maid: to be your fellow
You may deny me; but I'll be your servant,
Whether you will or no.

Fer. My mistress, my dearest, And I thus humble ever.

Mira. My husband, then?

Fer. Ay, with a heart so willing

As bondage e'er of freedom; here's my hand.

Mira. And mine, with my heart in't. And now farewell Till half an hour hence.

SHAKESPEAR,

Por.

PORTIA AND BRUTUS.

Brutus, my lord!

Bru. Portia, what mean you? Wherefore rise

It is not for your health, thus to commit
Your weak condition to the raw cold morning.

you now?

Por. Nor for yours, neither. You have ungently, Brutus,
Stole from my bed: and yesternight, at supper,
You suddenly arose, and walk'd about,

Musing, and sighing, with your arıns across ;
And, when I ask'd you what the matter was,
You star'd upon me with ungentle looks:

I urg'd you farther; then you scratch'd your head,
And too impatiently stamp'd with your foot:
Yet I insisted, yet you answer'd not;

But with an angry wafture of your hand,
Gave sign for me to leave you: so I did;
Fearing to strengthen that impatience,
Which seem'd too much enkindled; and, withal,
Hoping it was but an effect of humour,
Which sometime hath his hour with ev'ry man.
It will not let you eat, nor talk, nor sleep;
And, could it work so much upon your shape,
As it hath much prevail'd on your condition,
I should not know you, Brutus. Dear,
my lord,
Make me acquainted with your cause of grief.

Bru. I am not well in health, and that is all.
Por. Brutus is wise! and, were he not in health,
He would embrace the means to come by it.

Bru. Why, so I do :-Good Portia, go to bed,
Por. Is Brutus sick? and is it physical
To walk unbraced, and suck up the humours
Of the dank morning? What, is Brutus sick;
And will he steal out of his wholesome bed,
To dare the vile contagion of the night,
And tempt the rheumy and unpurged air
To add unto his sickness? No, my Brutus ?
You have some sick offence within your mind,
Which, by the right and virtue of my place,
I ought to know of: and, upon my knees,
I charm you, by my once commended beauty,
By all your vows of love, and that great vow,
Which did incorporate and make us one,
That you unfold to me, yourself, your half,
Why you are heavy; and what men to night
Have had resort to you: for here have been
Some six or seven, who did hide their faces

Even from darkness.

Bru.

Kneel not, gentle Portia.

Por. I should not need, if you were gentle Brutus. Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus,

Is it excepted, I should know no secrets,
That appertain to you? Am I yourself,
But, as it were, in sort, or limitation;

To keep with you at meals, comfort your bed,

And talk to you sometimes? Dwell I but in the suburbs Of your good pleasure? If it be no more,

Portia is Brutus' harlot, not his wife.

Bru. You are my true and honourable wife e;

As dear to me as are the ruddy drops,

That visit my sad heart.