Another part of the island. Enter CALIBAN with a burden of wood. A noise of thunder heard CALIBAN All the infections that the sun sucks up From bogs, fens, flats, on Prosper fall and make him By inch-meal a disease! His spirits hear me And yet I needs must curse. But they'll nor pinch, Fright me with urchin--shows, pitch me i' the mire, Nor lead me, like a firebrand, in the dark Out of my way, unless he bid 'em; but For every trifle are they set upon me;Sometime like apes that mow and chatter at me And after bite me, then like hedgehogs which Lie tumbling in my barefoot way and mount Their pricks at my footfall; sometime am I All wound with adders who with cloven tongues Do hiss me into madness.
Enter TRINCULO Lo, now, lo!
Here comes a spirit of his, and to torment me For bringing wood in slowly. I'll fall flat;Perchance he will not mind me. TRINCULO Here's neither bush nor shrub, to bear off any weather at all, and another storm brewing;I hear it sing i' the wind: yond same black cloud, yond huge one, looks like a foul bombard that would shed his liquor. If it should thunder as it did before, I know not where to hide my head: yond same cloud cannot choose but fall by pailfuls. What have we here? a man or a fish? dead or alive? A fish: he smells like a fish; a very ancient and fish- like smell; a kind of not of the newest Poor-John. A strange fish! Were I in England now, as once I was, and had but this fish painted, not a holiday fool there but would give a piece of silver: there would this monster make a man; any strange beast there makes a man: when they will not give a doit to relieve a lame beggar, they will lazy out ten to see a dead Indian. Legged like a man and his fins like arms! Warm o' my troth! I do now let loose my opinion; hold it no longer: this is no fish, but an islander, that hath lately suffered by a thunderbolt.
Thunder Alas, the storm is come again! my best way is to creep under his gaberdine; there is no other shelter hereabouts: misery acquaints a man with strange bed-fellows. I will here shroud till the dregs of the storm be past.
Enter STEPHANO, singing: a bottle in his hand STEPHANO I shall no more to sea, to sea, Here shall I die ashore--This is a very scurvy tune to sing at a man's funeral: well, here's my comfort.
Drinks Sings The master, the swabber, the boatswain and I, The gunner and his mate Loved Mall, Meg and Marian and Margery, But none of us cared for Kate;For she had a tongue with a tang, Would cry to a sailor, Go hang!
She loved not the savour of tar nor of pitch, Yet a tailor might scratch her where'er she did itch:
Then to sea, boys, and let her go hang!
This is a scurvy tune too: but here's my comfort.
Drinks CALIBAN Do not torment me: Oh! STEPHANO What's the matter? Have we devils here?
Do you put tricks upon's with savages and men of Ind, ha?