Art thou afeard?
No, monster, not I.
Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises,
Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears, and sometime voices
That, if I then had waked after long sleep,
Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming,
The clouds methought would open and show riches
Ready to drop upon me that, when I waked,
I cried to dream again.
This will prove a brave kingdom to me, where I shall
have my music for nothing.
When Prospero is destroyed.
And who are you Caliban, what other name shall I call you by?
In this place do I wake or do I dream? Or in waking am I only dreaming?
This brave kingdom to who's shore I have been cast, puzzles me.
Sweet airs I have known, yet there is something rotten in the state of... All this pastiche.
Prospero stills reigns, he is everywhere and in all things.
He is the God, still, of this isle and the people worship him in their daily rituals.
And all those who are cast on these shores fall deeper into the spell and Prospero grows stronger for it.
His spell is in the air, yet I or you Caliban could be king of this island. That is what you tell me.
And you are then under his spell too monster and it seems we are all slaves to the music of the island.