Part 35

O the cry did knock Against my very heart. Poor souls! they perished. Had I been any god of power, I would Have sunk the sea within the earth, or e'er It should the good ship so have swallowed, And the freighting souls within her;

and that her first sigh should be offered to a love at once fearless and submissive, delicate and fond. She has no taught scruples of honor like Juliet; no coy concealments like Viola; no assumed dignity standing in its own defence. Her bashfulness is less a quality than an instinct; it is like the self-folding of a flower, spontaneous and unconscious. I suppose there is nothing of the kind in poetry equal to the scene between Ferdinand and Miranda. In Ferdinand, who is a noble creature, we have all the chivalrous magnanimity with which man, in a high state of civilization, disguises his real superiority, and does humble homage to the being of whose destiny he disposes; while Miranda, the mere child of nature, is struck with wonder at her own new emotions. Only conscious of her own weakness as a woman, and ignorant of those usages of society which teach us to dissemble the real passion, and assume (and sometimes abuse) an unreal and transient power, she is equally ready to place her life, her love, her service beneath his feet.

MIRANDA.

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

FERDINAND.

O most dear mistress, The sun will set before I shall discharge What I must strive to do.

MIRANDA.

If you'll sit down, I'll bear your logs the while. Pray give me that, I'll carry it to the pile.

FERDINAND.

No, precious creature; I had rather crack my sinews, break my back, Than you should such dishonor undergo, While I sit lazy by.

MIRANDA.

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 against.

* * * *

MIRANDA.

You look wearily.

FERDINAND.

No, noble mistress; 'tis fresh morning with me When you are by at night. I do beseech you, (Chiefly that I might set it in my prayers,) What is your name?

MIRANDA.

Miranda. O my father I have broke your 'hest to say so!

FERDINAND.

Admir'd Miranda! Indeed the top of admiration; worth What's dearest to the world! Full many a lady I have eyed with best regard: and many a time The harmony of their tongues hath into bondage Brought my too diligent ear: for several virtues Have I liked several women; never any With so full soul, but some defect in her Did quarrel with the noblest grace she owed And put it to the foil. But you, O you, So perfect and so peerless, are created Of every creature's best!

MIRANDA.

I do not know One of my sex: no woman's face remember, Save, from my glass, mine own; nor have I seen Mere that I may call men, than you, good friend, And my dear father. How features are abroad I am skill-less 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 Therein forget.

FERDINAND.

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.

MIRANDA.

Do you love me?

FERDINAND.