_Cal._ All the infections that the Sun sucks up From bogs, fens, flats, on Prosper fall, and make him By inch-meal[410-1] a disease! His spirits hear me, And yet I needs must curse. But they'll nor pinch, Fright me with urchin-shows,[410-2] pitch me i' the mire, Nor lead me, like a fire-brand,[410-3] in the dark Out of my way, unless he bid 'em: but For every trifle are they set upon me; Sometime[410-4] like apes, that mow[410-5] and chatter at me And after bite me; then like hedgehogs, which Lie tumbling in my barefoot way, and mount Their pricks[411-6] at my foot-fall; sometime am I All wound with adders, who with cloven tongues Do hiss me into madness. Lo, now, lo! Here comes a spirit of his; and to torment me For bringing wood in slowly. I'll fall flat: Perchance he will not mind me.[411-7] _Enter TRINCULO._ _Trin._ Here's neither bush nor shrub, to bear off[411-8] any weather at all, and another storm brewing; I hear it sing i' the wind: yond same black cloud, yond huge one, looks like a foul bombard[411-9] 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.[411-10] 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:[411-11] 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 a thunder-bolt. [_Thunder._] Alas, the storm is come again! my best way is to creep under his gaberdine;[412-12] 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. [_Creeps under CALIBAN'S garment._ _Enter STEPHANO, singing; a bottle in his hand._ Steph. _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._ [Sings.] _The master, the swabber,[412-13] the boatswain, and I, The gunner, and his mate, Loved Mall, Meg, and Marian, and Margery, But none of us cared for Kate; For she had a tongue with a tang,[412-14] Would cry to a sailor, _Go hang! _She loved not the savour of tar nor of pitch: Then to sea, boys, and let her go hang!_ This is a scurvy tune too: but here's my comfort. [_Drinks._ _Cal._ Do not torment me:--O!