So giant-like, and terrible, and grand,
Spite of the skin he’s wrapt in.
Fife. Why, ’tis his own:
Oh, ’tis some wild man of the woods; I’ve heard
They build and carry torches—
Ros. Never Ape
Bore such a brow before the heavens as that—
Chain’d as you say too!—
Fife. Oh, that dreadful chain!
Ros. And now he sets the lamp down by his side,