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.

PROSPERO.
[To FERDINAND] Come on; obey:
Thy nerves are in their infancy again,
And have no vigour in them.

FERDINAND.
So they are:
My spirits, as in a dream, are all bound up.
My father's loss, the weakness which I feel,
The wrack of all my friends, nor this man's threats,
To whom I am subdued, are but light to me,
Might I but through my prison once a day