Would cry to a sailor, Go hang!
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
Caliban.
Do not torment me: Oh!
Stephano.
What ’s the matter? Have we devils here? Do you put tricks upon ’s with savages and men of Ind, ha? I have not ’scaped drowning to be afeard now of your four legs; for it hath been said, As proper a man as ever went on four legs cannot make him give ground; and it shall be said so again while Stephano breathes at ’s nostrils.
Caliban.
The spirit torments me; Oh!
Stephano.
This is some monster of the isle with four legs, who hath got, as I take it, an ague. Where the devil should he learn our language? I will give him some relief, if it be but for that. If I can recover him and keep him tame and get to Naples with him, he’s a present for any emperor that ever trod on neat’s-leather.
Caliban.
Do not torment me, prithee; I ’ll bring my wood home faster.
Stephano.
He ’s in his fit now and does not talk after the wisest. He shall taste of my bottle: if he have never drunk wine afore, it will go
