FERDINAND.
No;
I will resist such entertainment till
Mine enemy has more power.
[He draws, and is charmed from moving.]
MIRANDA.
O dear father!
Make not too rash a trial of him, for
He's gentle, and not fearful.
PROSPERO.
What! I say,
My foot my tutor? Put thy sword up, traitor;
Who mak'st a show, but dar'st not strike, thy conscience
Is so possess'd with guilt: come from thy ward,
For I can here disarm thee with this stick
And make thy weapon drop.
MIRANDA.
Beseech you, father!
PROSPERO.
Hence! Hang not on my garments.
MIRANDA.
Sir, have pity;
I'll be his surety.
PROSPERO.
Silence! One word more
Shall make me chide thee, if not hate thee. What!
An advocate for an impostor? hush!
Thou think'st there is no more such shapes as he,
Having seen but him and Caliban: foolish wench!
To the most of men this is a Caliban,
And they to him are angels.
MIRANDA.
My affections
Are then most humble; I have no ambition
To see a goodlier man.
