William Shakespeare: The Tempest
Miranda: 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 creatures 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 to sea within the earth, or ere
It should the good ship so have swallowed and
The fraughting souls within her.
Prospero: Be collected.
No more amazement, Tell your piteous heart
There's no harm done.