Here’s neither bush nor shrub to bear off any weather

Trinculo
Here's neither bush nor shrub to bear off
any weather at all. And another storm brewing; I
hear it sing i' th' 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 pailfuls.  Noticing Caliban.
What have we here, a man or a fish? Dead or
alive? A fish, he smells like a fish—a very ancient
and fishlike 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 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.  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 bedfellows. I will here shroud till the
dregs of the storm be past.
He crawls under Caliban's cloak.
Enter Stephano singing.

Stephano sings
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,
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 savor 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! O!