ow and chatter at me,
And after bite me; then like hedgehogs, which 10
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 15
For bringing wood in slowly. I'll fall flat;
Perchance he will not mind me.

_Trin._ Here's neither bush nor shrub, to bear off any
weather at all, and another storm brewing; I hear it sing i'
the wind: yond same black cloud, yond huge one, looks 20
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 25
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 30
relieve a lame beggar, they will lay out ten to see a dead
Indian. Legged 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 thunderbolt. [_Thunder._] Alas, the storm is come 35
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._

_Ste._ I shall no more to sea, to sea, 40
Here shall I die a-shore,--

This is a very scurvy tune to sing at a man's funeral: well,
here's my comfort. [_Drinks._

[_Sings._ The master, the swabber, the boatswain, and I,
The gunner, and his mate, 45
Loved Mall, Meg, and Marian, and Margery,
But none of us cared for Kate;
For she had a tongue with a tang,
Would cry to a sailor, Go hang!
She loved not the savour of tar nor of pitch; 50