Captain: You'd best make sure of the gift. Another stranger, Who swore he knew of better gods than ours, Seemed to the king troubled with fleas, and slaves Were told to groom him smartly, which they did Thoroughly with steel combs, until at last They curried the living flesh from off his bones And stript his face of gristle, till he was Skull and half skeleton and yet alive. You're not for dealing in new gods? Thomas: Not I. Was the man killed? Captain: He lived a little while; But the flies killed him. Thomas: Flies? I hope India Is not a fly-plagued land? I abhor flies. Captain: You will see strange ones, for our Indian life Hath wonderful fierce breeding. Common earth With us quickens to buzzing flights of wings As readily as a week-old carcase here Thrown in a sunny marsh. Why, we have wasps That make your hornets seem like pretty midges; And there be flies in India will drink Not only blood of bulls, tigers, and bears, But pierce the river-horses' creasy leather, Ay, worry crocodiles through their cuirasses And prick the metal fishes when they bask. You'll feel them soon, with beaks like sturdy pins, Treating their stinging thirsts with your best blood. A man can't walk a mile in India Without being the business of a throng'd And moving town of flies; they hawk at a man As bold as little eagles, and as wild. And, I suppose, only a fool will blame them. Flies have the right to sink wells in our skin All as men to bore parcht earth for water. But I must do a job on board, and then Search the town afresh for a carpenter.