The Tempest

If by your art, my dearest father, you have Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them. The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch, But that the sea, mounting to th’ welkin’s cheek, Dashes the fire out. O, I have suffered With those that I saw suffer! A brave vessel, Who had, no doubt, some noble creature in her, Dashed all to pieces. O, the cry did knock Against my very heart! Poor souls, they perished. Had I been any god of power, I would Have sunk the sea within the earth or ere It should the good ship so have swallowed, and The fraughting souls within her.