You are three men of sin, whom Destiny

You are three men of sin, whom Destiny,

That hath to instrument this lower world

And what is in't, -- the never-surfeited sea

Hath caused to belch up you; and on this island

Where man doth not inhabit; you 'mongst men

Being most unfit to live. I have made you mad:

And even with such-like valour men hang and drown

Their proper selves. You fools! I and my fellows

Are ministers of fate: the elements

Of whom your swords are temper'd may as well

Wound the loud winds, or with bemock'd-at stabs

Kill the still-closing waters, as diminish

One dowle that's in my plume; my fellow-ministers

Are like invulnerable. If you could hurt,

Your swords are now too massy for your strengths,

And will not be uplifted. But, remember --

For that's my business to you, -- that you three

From Milan did supplant good Prospero;

Expos'd unto the sea, which hath requit it,

Him, and his innocent child: for which foul deed

The powers, delaying, not forgetting, have

Incens'd the seas and shores, yea, all the creatures,

Against your peace. Thee of thy son, Alonso,

They have bereft; and do pronounce, by me

Lingering perdition, -- worse than any death

Can be at once, -- shall step by step attend

You and your ways; whose wraths to guard you from--

Which here, in this most desolate isle, else falls

Upon your heads, -- is nothing but heart-sorrow,

And a clear life ensuing.