MIRANDA.
What is't? a spirit?
Lord, how it looks about! Believe me, sir,
It carries a brave form: — but 'tis a spirit.
PROSPERO.
No, wench; it eats and sleeps, and hath such senses
As we have, such; this gallant which thou see'st
Was in the wrack; and but he's something stain'd
With grief, — that beauty's canker, — thou mightst call him
A goodly person: he hath lost his fellows
And strays about to find 'em.
MIRANDA.
I might call him
A thing divine; for nothing natural
I ever saw so noble.
PROSPERO.
[Aside] It goes on, I see,
As my soul prompts it. — Spirit, fine spirit! I'll free thee
Within two days for this.
FERDINAND.
Most sure, the goddess
On whom these airs attend! — Vouchsafe, my prayer
May know if you remain upon this island;
And that you will some good instruction give
How I may bear me here: my prime request,
Which I do last pronounce, is, — O you wonder! —
If you be maid or no?
MIRANDA.
No wonder, sir;
But certainly a maid.
