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SCENE II . Another part of the island . Enter Caliban with a burden of wood . A noise of thunder heard . CALIBAN . All the infections that the sun sucks up From bogs , fens , flats , on Prosper fall , and make him By inch - meal a disease ! His spirits hear me , And yet I needs must curse . But they’ll nor pinch , Fright me with urchin - shows , pitch me i ’ the mire , Nor lead me , like a firebrand , in the dark Out of my way , unless he bid ’ em ; but For every trifle are they set upon me , Sometime like apes that mow and chatter at me , And after bite me ; then like hedgehogs which Lie tumbling in my barefoot way , and mount Their pricks at my footfall ; sometime am I All wound with adders , who with cloven tongues Do hiss me into madness . Enter Trinculo . 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 . 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 . ]
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