TRINCULO.
Here’s neither bush nor shrub to bear off any weather at all, and another storm brewing; I hear it sing i’ th’ 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 lay out ten to see a dead Indian. Legg’d 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 thunderbolt. [Thunder.] Alas, the storm is come again! My best way is to creep under his gaberdine; there is no other shelter hereabout: 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.]
The master, the swabber, the boatswain, and I,
The gunner, and his mate,
Lov’d Mall, Meg, and Marian, and Margery,
But none of us car’d for Kate:
For she had a tongue with a tang,
Would cry to a sailor “Go hang!”
She lov’d 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: O!
STEPHANO.
What’s the matter? Have we devils here? Do you put tricks upon ’s with savages and men of Ind? Ha? I have not scap’d drowning, to be afeard now of your four legs; for it hath been said, As proper a man as ever went on four legs cannot make him give ground; and it shall be said so again, while Stephano breathes at’ nostrils.