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.
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