William Shakespeare: The Tempest

ACT 4 1. SCENE I. Before PROSPERO'S cell (continued)

[JUNO and CERES whisper, and send IRIS on employment.]

PROSPERO.
Sweet now, silence!
Juno and Ceres whisper seriously,
There's something else to do: hush, and be mute,
Or else our spell is marr'd.

IRIS.
You nymphs, call'd Naiads, of the windring brooks,
With your sedg'd crowns and ever-harmless looks,
Leave your crisp channels, and on this green land
Answer your summons: Juno does command.
Come, temperate nymphs, and help to celebrate
A contract of true love: be not too late.

[Enter certain NYMPHS]

You sun-burn'd sicklemen, of August weary,
Come hither from the furrow, and be merry:
Make holiday: your rye-straw hats put on,
And these fresh nymphs encounter every one
In country footing.

[Enter certain Reapers, properly habited: they join]
with the Nymphs in a graceful dance; towards the
end whereof PROSPERO starts suddenly, and speaks;
after which, to a strange, hollow, and confused
noise, they heavily vanish.]

PROSPERO.
[Aside] I had forgot that foul conspiracy
Of the beast Caliban and his confederates
Against my life: the minute of their plot
Is almost come. [To the Spirits.] Well done! avoid; no
more!

FERDINAND.
This is strange: your father's in some passion
That works him strongly.

MIRANDA.
Never till this day
Saw I him touch'd with anger so distemper'd.

PROSPERO.
You do look, my son, in a mov'd sort,
As if you were dismay'd: be cheerful, sir:
Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.--Sir, I am vex'd:
Bear with my weakness; my old brain is troubled.
Be not disturb'd with my infirmity.
If you be pleas'd, retire into my cell
And there repose: a turn or two I'll walk,
To still my beating mind.