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All the infections that the sun sucks up

All the infections that the sun sucks up
From bogs, fens, flats, on Prosper fall and make him
By inchmeal a disease!

Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.

His spirits hear me,
And yet I needs must curse. But they’ll nor pinch,
Fright me with urchin-shows, pitch me i’ th’ mire,
Nor lead me like a firebrand in the dark
Out of my way, unless he bid ’em. But
For every trifle are they set upon me,
Sometimes like apes, that mow and chatter at me
And after bite me; then like hedgehogs, which
Lie tumbling in my barefoot way and mount
Their pricks at my footfall. Sometime am I
All wound with adders, who with cloven tongues
Do hiss me into madness. Lo, now, lo!
Here comes a spirit of his, and to torment me
For bringing wood in slowly. I’ll fall flat.
Perchance he will not mind me.
 He lies down and covers himself with a cloak.
 Enter 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.

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.
Do not torment me! O!

Act 2
Scene 2
Line 1

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