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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 caus’d 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 valor men hang and drown Their proper selves. (Alonso, Sebastian, etc. draw their swords.) 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 pow’rs, 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 Ling’ring 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’s sorrow, And a clear life ensuing.