what thou hast beenWhich thou forget'st. This damn'd witch SycoraxFor
mischiefs manifoldand sorceries terrible To enter human hearingfrom
Argier Thou know'st was banish'd; for one thing she did They would not
take her life. Is not this true? ARIEL. Aysir. PROSPERO. This blue-ey'd
hag was hither brought with childAnd here was left by th'sailors. Thou
my slaveAs thou report'st thyselfwast then her servant; Andfor thou
wast a spirit too delicate To act her earthy and abhorr'd commands
Refusing her grand hestsshe did confine theeBy help of her more potent
ministersAnd in her most unmitigable rageInto a cloven pine; within
which rift Imprison'd thou didst painfully remain A dozen years; within
which space she diedAnd left thee therewhere thou didst vent thy groans
As fast as mill-wheels strike. Then was this island- Save for the son that
she did litter hereA freckl'd whelphag-born-not honour'd with A human
shape. ARIEL. YesCaliban her son. PROSPERO. Dull thingI say so; he
that Caliban Whom now I keep in service. Thou best know'st What
torment I did find thee in; thy groans Did make wolves howland
penetrate the breasts Of ever-angry bears; it was a torment To lay upon the
damn'dwhich Sycorax Could not again undo.
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The Early Short Fiction Part Twogac