Tender your own good fortune? Seb. I remember, You did supplant your brother Prospero. Ant. True: And, look, how well my garments sit upon me; Much feater than before my brother's servants Were then my fellows, now they are my men. Seb. But, for your conscience, Ant. Ay, sir; where lies that? if it were a kybe, "Twould put me to my slipper; but I feel not If he were that which now he 's like, that's dead; of it, Can lay to bed for ever: whiles you, doing thus, This ancient morsel, this sir Prudence, who Seb. Thy case, dear friend, Shall be my precedent: as thou got'st Milan, I'll come by Naples. Draw thy sword: one stroke Shall free thee from the tribute which thou pay'st; And I, the king, shall love thee. Ant. And when I rear my hand, do Seb. Draw together; O, but one word. [they converse apart. Music. Re-enter ARIEL, invisible. Ari. My master through his art foresees the danger That you, his friend, are in; and sends me forth, (For else his project dies) to keep them living. [sings in Gonzalo's ear. While you here do snoring lie, His time doth take: If of life you keep a care, Awake! awake! Ant. Then let us both be sudden. Gon. Now, good angels, preserve the king! [they wake. Alon. Why, how now, ho! awake! Why are you drawn? Wherefore this ghastly looking? Gon. What's the matter? Seb. Whiles we stood here securing your repose, Even now, we heard a hollow burst of bellowing, Like bulls, or rather lions: did it not wake you ? It struck mine ear most terribly. Alon. I heard nothing. Ant. O, 'twas a din to fright a monster's ear; To make an earthquake! sure, it was the roar Of a whole herd of lions. Alon. Heard you this, Gonzalo ? Gon. Upon mine honor, sir, I heard a humming, And that a strange one too, which did awake me: I shaked you, sir, and cried: as mine eyes open'd, I saw their weapons drawn :-there was a noise, That's verity. 'Tis best we stand upon our guard; Or that we quit this place: let's draw our weapons. Alon. Lead off this ground; and let's make further search Ari. Prospero, my lord, shall know what I have done: So, king, go safely on to seek thy son. [aside. [Exeunt. SCENE II. Another part of the island. Enter CALIBAN, with a burden of wood. A noise of thunder heard. Cal. 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, Enter TRINCULO. Here comes a spirit of his; and to torment 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 like a foul bumbard 2 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 ¡ Make mouths. 2 A leathern flagon to hold beer. 44 TEMPEST. ACT II. 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! 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.] again: my best way is to creep under his gaberAlas! the storm is come dine; 1 there is no other shelter hereabout. Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows. 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; Here shall I die a-shore ; This is a very scurvy tune to sing at a man's funeral: Well, here's my comfort. The master, the swabber, the boatswain, and I, The gunner, and his mate, Lov'd Mall, Meg, and Marian, and Margery, For she had a tongue with a tang, She loved not the savor of tar nor of pitch, [drinks. 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. Cal. Do not torment me. O! 1 The coarse frock of a peasant. |