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 the face of sky
 Dashes the fire out. O, I have suffered
 With those that I saw suffer!  ...  O, the cry did knock
 Against my very heart! Poor souls, they perished!
 Had I been any god of power, I would
 Have sunk the 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 pitying heart
 There's no harm done.