Ari. Thou liest.
Steph. Do I so? take thou that. [Strikes him.] As you like this, give me the lie another time.
Trin. I did not give thee the lie. Out o’ your wits and hearing too? A pox o’ your bottle! this can sack and drinking do. A murrain on your monster, and the Devil take your fingers!
Cal. Ha, ha, ha!
Steph. Now, forward with your tale.—Pr’ythee stand further off.[427-15]
Cal. Beat him enough: after a little time, I’ll beat him too.
Steph. Stand further.—Come, proceed.
Cal. Why, as I told thee, ’tis a custom with him
I’ the afternoon to sleep; then thou mayst brain him,
Having first seized his books; or with a log
Batter his skull, or paunch him with a stake,
Or cut his weazand[427-16] with thy knife. Remember
First to possess his books; for without them
He’s but a sot,[427-17] as I am, nor hath not
One spirit to command: they all do hate him
As rootedly as I. Burn but his books.
He has brave[427-18] utensils,—for so he calls them,—
Which, when he has a house, he’ll deck’t withal:
And that most deeply to consider is
The beauty of his daughter; he himself
Calls her a nonpareil: I ne’er saw woman,
But only Sycorax my dam and she;
But she as far surpasseth Sycorax
As great’st does least.
Steph. Is it so brave a lass?
Cal. Ay, lord.