CALIBAN [Rising.] Nay, will not!
DEATH None can say me Nay. I am The will to not be which denies all wills.
[Through the Cloudy Curtains—slowly—Prospero enters, in troubled meditation.]
CALIBAN And I am Caliban: [Pointing toward Prospero.] will be his servant.
DEATH Caliban, thou shalt fail. Thyself art failure, Setebos’ son.
CALIBAN Myself am done with Setebos: Wear now Miranda’s cloth.
DEATH Thou shalt wear mine. Behold!
CALIBAN [Looking at the gray cloak.] What’s that?
DEATH My cloak, where thou shalt hide To snare Miranda unto bondage. Hark!
[Far, cold, and thin a dirgeful choir sounds from the cell behind the figure of Death.]