ALONSO         What is this maid with whom thou wast at play?

Your eld’st acquaintance cannot be three hours.

Is she the goddess that hath severed us

And brought us thus together?

FERDINAND                                                   Sir, she is mortal,

But by immortal providence she’s mine;

I chose her when I could not ask my father

For his advice, nor thought I had one. She

Is daughter to this famous Duke of Milan—

Of whom so often I have heard renown

But never saw before—of whom I have

Received a second life; and second father

This lady makes him to me.

ALONSO                                                         I am hers.

But O, how oddly will it sound that I

Must ask my child forgiveness.

PROSPERO                                                     There, sir, stop.

Let us not burden our remembrances with

A heaviness that’s gone. (5.1.185-200)

Alonso the King is asking his son who Miranda is, certainly, but also what she is, what kind of woman and, implicitly, of what rank. He’s being a responsible father (and king) in this: has his son and heir become entangled with an admittedly pretty but potentially unsuitable woman he’s only known three hours at most? His formulation is kindly and polite: is she the goddess that hath severed us, that separated us in the storm, the wreck, and who has now brought us thus together? But he’s also asking, is she an appropriate wife for a future king of Milan? (This closely mirrors the parallel situation in Winter’s Tale, where Prince Florizel has fallen in love with Perdita, brought up as a shepherd’s daughter but in fact a princess; Polixenes his father is furious at his son’s relationship with one apparently so far beneath him.) Alonso’s question, is she a goddess, also glances at the famous encounter between Aeneas and his mother Venus (in disguise) in Aeneid 1: o dea certe, surely you are a goddess, which in turn recalls that between the shipwrecked Odysseus and the princess Nausicaa in Odyssey 6.) Ferdinand gets exactly what he’s being asked, and responds with courtesy and reassurance. She is mortal, not a goddess, but she is mine, by immortal, heavenly providence. I’m sorry I didn’t seek your counsel (or permission) when I chose her, but you weren’t here; I thought you were dead. She’s entirely suitable to be my bride, as the daughter to this famous Duke of Milan—of whom so often I have heard renown but never saw before. (Interesting. Unless he’s being extremely tactful and discreet, Ferdinand suggests that he’s only ever heard of Prospero’s fame, not his inadequacy as duke nor, presumably, his father’s part in his deposition.) Prospero saved me, giving me a second life (and Miranda, too, is another life, a fresh start, a brave new world). And he will be my second father, when I marry his daughter. By this I will be, and am, her father, Alonso replies; he gracefully gives his consent to the marriage, and as it were welcomes Miranda to the family. (Father was the usual term for father-in-law in the period.) Since she is now my daughter, I must ask her forgiveness for what I’ve done, continues Alonso, perhaps even kneeling to Miranda as Ferdinand has knelt to him—but Prospero spares him the shame, and the pain, of confessing and apologising for his weakness and corruption, and the very real effects that they have had on Miranda’s life and upbringing, in front of his son, friends, and future daughter-in-law. Let us not burden our remembrances with a heaviness that’s gone. Let’s not remember the pain of past injury and injustice; that sadness, that grief, that heaviness, has passed. This from Prospero, hitherto obsessed with past wrongs done to him… A sea-change indeed.