MIRANDA                              O dear father,

Make not too rash a trial of him, for

He’s gentle and not fearful.

PROSPERO                                                     What, I say,

My foot my tutor? Put thy sword up, traitor,

Who mak’st a show but dar’st not strike, thy conscience

Is so possessed with guilt. Come from thy ward,

For I can here disarm thee with this stick

And make thy weapon drop.

MIRANDA                                                      Beseech you, father—

PROSPERO     Hence; hang not on my garments.

MIRANDA                                                                  Sir, have pity;

I’ll be his surety. (1.2.467-476)

Miranda is besotted – but also caught, presumably for the first time, between two loyalties, two emotional imperatives: love for her father and, instantaneous though it be, for Ferdinand. Yet it’s important that her impulse to intervene is one of pity and of fairness. She doesn’t say, treat him well for my sake, but rather, don’t be impetuous, rash (and, perhaps even, don’t go over the top, don’t be a bully): he’s gentle and not fearful; he’s not a threat, inspiring fear, and he’s gentle, calm and mild, but also noble, well-born. But Prospero, as ever, once he gets going, can’t stop, even when he’s putting on a show (as he – sort of – is here): how dare you tell me what to do? He is the head, and Miranda is the foot; he is the one in charge, with all the power, and he doesn’t have to listen to anyone, let alone his foot. And then he mocks Ferdinand – who is presumably still frozen by the charm – by saying, put thy sword up, away, sheathe it, stop pointing it at me (Othello: Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them). Traitor again, who mak’st a show– who acts all fierce – but dar’st not strike – well, he can’t, he’s enchanted and can’t move a muscle. And, furthermore, this inability to strike, to move is a sign of guilt – the guilt of having usurped the throne of Naples and then come to this island with a similar intent, as in Prospero’s ludicrous accusation earlier. Go on, have a go, stop prevaricating, come from thy ward – a defensive posture in duelling – look, I can disarm you just with this stick – presumably Prospero’s staff – you’re useless, you’re not even putting up a fight. (The thing about Prospero is that he enjoys these petty cruelties, these moments where his temper, and his mocking verbal inventiveness, gain their own momentum. He doesn’t have to tease and mock Ferdinand quite so much.) Please father, be nice to him and let him go, says Miranda, apparently clutching at Prospero’s sleeve or some other part of his garment. But he shakes her off: hence, get out of my way. But she persists – like her father, stubborn, and not readily able to see when to let something go – have pity, her keynote, again. I’ll be his surety: I’ll guarantee that he won’t do anything wrong. And Sir, not dear father – she’s noted the rebuke, the reminder of who’s really in charge on the island.