Enter Caliban again with a bottle.
Trinc. Why then I'll tell thee,—I found her an hour ago under an elder-tree, upon a sweet bed of nettles, singing Tory Rory, and Rantum Scantum, with her own natural brother.
Steph. O Jew! make love in her own tribe?
Trinc. But 'tis no matter; to tell thee true, I married her to be a great man, and so forth: But make no words on't, for I care not who knows it, and so here's to thee again.—Give me the bottle, Caliban! did you knock the butt? How does it sound?
Calib. It sounds as though it had a noise within.
Trinc. I fear the butt begins to rattle in the throat, and is departing: give me the bottle.
[Drinks.
Must. A short life and a merry, I say.
[Steph. whispers Sycorax.
Syc. But did he tell you so?
Steph. He said you were as ugly as your mother, and that he married you only to get possession of the island.
Syc. My mother's devils fetch him for't!