PROSPERO.
Thou dost; and think'st it much to tread the ooze
Of the salt deep,
To run upon the sharp wind of the north,
To do me business in the veins o' th' earth
When it is bak'd with frost.
ARIEL.
I do not, sir.
PROSPERO.
Thou liest, malignant thing! Hast thou forgot
The foul witch Sycorax, who with age and envy
Was grown into a hoop? Hast thou forgot her?
ARIEL.
No, sir.
PROSPERO.
Thou hast. Where was she born?
Speak; tell me.
ARIEL.
Sir, in Argier.
PROSPERO.
O! was she so? I must
Once in a month recount what thou hast been,
Which thou forget'st. This damn'd witch Sycorax,
For mischiefs manifold, and sorceries terrible
To enter human hearing, from Argier,
Thou know'st,was banish'd: for one thing she did
They would not take her life. Is not this true?
