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- ACT TWO THE TEMPEST SCENE TWO
For bringing wood in slowly. I '11 fall flat ;Perchance he will not mind me.
Trlaculo. 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
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 pail-
fuls. 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 I 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. Legged like
a man 1 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 ; 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 Stephana, singing: a bottle in his hand.]
Stephana. I shall no more to sea, to sea,
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,
Loved Moll, 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 1
She loved 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.
48
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