Enter FERDINAND, bearing a log.

 

FERDINAND   There be some sports are painful and their labour

Delight in them sets off. Some kinds of baseness

Are nobly undergone; and most poor matters

Point to rich ends. This my mean task

Would be as heavy to me as odious, but

The mistress which I serve quickens what’s dead,

And makes my labours pleasures. O, she is

Ten times more gentle than her father’s crabbed,

And he’s composed of harshness. I must remove

Some thousand of these logs and pile them up,

Upon a sore injunction. My sweet mistress

Weeps when she sees me work and says such baseness

Had never like executor. I forget;

But these sweet thoughts do even refresh my labours

Most busilest when I do it. (3.1.1-15)

 

This, of course, follows immediately after Caliban’s joyous proclamation that he is no longer going to fetch in firing at requiring. Ferdinand is currently doing Caliban’s work, carrying firewood; there is considerable potential for physical comedy here, especially if Ferdinand is indeed carrying only a single, small log, and with considerable effort. This is an unfamiliar task for a prince. But he is determined to make the best of it, attempting to convince himself that his discomfort and fatigue are of no consequence, in a kind of calculus of pain and satisfaction. Even some sports, physical pastimes (not just sport: this could include dancing, fencing, and other physical activities) are difficult and cause pain, but the pleasure that they give is compensation enough for any suffering they may cause along the way. And – furthermore (as he tries again to convince himself) – there are various kinds of low activity, baseness, which are undertaken for noble reasons, or which can be nobly undergone, and which result in no disgrace, no loss of noble status. Poor matters, suffering, demeaning tasks often, frequently, mostly – or the most poor matters, the most demeaning – point to rich ends, are undertaken for lofty purposes, and are well rewarded. (He’s really trying to convince himself.) My mean task, my unaccustomed manual labour, would be as distressing to me as it is distasteful – were it not for the mistress which I serve, Miranda. She makes my work bearable, changing pain to pleasure; she quickens, gives life to the dead (literally; here, perhaps, she gives me the strength to carry on, when I am exhausted). She is kinder, and more noble by far than her father: he is crabbed, sour, unpleasant, entirely made up of harshness and severity; she is ten times as nice as he is nasty. Another possibility for comedy (especially if Ariel is ‘playing’ the log, as is sometimes the case): I’ve got around a thousand of these logs to move, to pile up upon a sore injunction, a strict order. My sweet mistress weeps when she sees me work – Miranda’s upset, but implicitly knows she can’t cross her father, or argue with him – she knows I’m gentle, too noble an executor to undertake such lowly labour. I forget – look at me standing here daydreaming, not getting on with the work – but even thinking about Miranda, these sweet thoughts, gives me some relief and refreshment. Busilest is – hooray – a notorious textual crux. (F has busie lest; F2 has busie least, variously emended by other editors as least busy, busie-less, busiest, busil’est; busilest is Arden.) However it’s rendered, it seems to suggest that thinking about Miranda comforts him, refreshes him even more, even more busily, most busily (it’s a weird superlative) when he’s actually working (or at least when he pauses to think; it could be both or either).