MIRANDA.
Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.
PROSPERO.
To have no screen between this part he play'd
And him he play'd it for, he needs will be
Absolute Milan. Me, poor man — my library
Was dukedom large enough: of temporal royalties
He thinks me now incapable; confederates, —
So dry he was for sway, — wi' th' King of Naples
To give him annual tribute, do him homage;
Subject his coronet to his crown, and bend
The dukedom, yet unbow'd — alas, poor Milan! —
To most ignoble stooping.
MIRANDA.
O the heavens!
PROSPERO.
Mark his condition, and the event; then tell me
If this might be a brother.
MIRANDA.
I should sin
To think but nobly of my grandmother:
Good wombs have borne bad sons.
