them
I' the filthy-mantled pool beyond your cell,
There dancing up to the chins, that the foul lake
O'erstunk their feet.
This was well done, my bird.
Thy shape invisible retain thou still:
The trumpery in my house, go bring it hither,
For stale to catch these thieves.
I go, I go.
A devil, a born devil, on whose nature
Nurture can never stick; on whom my pains,
Humanely taken, all, all lost, quite lost;
And as with age his body uglier grows,
So his mind cankers. I will plague them all,
Even to roaring.
Come, hang them on this line.
Pray you, tread softly, that the blind mole may not
Hear a foot fall: we now are near his cell.
Monster, your fairy, which you say is
a harmless fairy, has done little better than
played the Jack with us.
Monster, I do smell all horse-piss; at
which my nose is in great indignation.
So is mine. Do you hear, monster? If I should take
a displeasure against you, look you,--
Thou wert but a lost monster.
Good my lord, give me thy favour still.
Be patient, for the prize I'll bring thee to
Shall hoodwink this mischance: therefore speak softly.
All's hush'd as midnight yet.
Ay, but to lose our bottles in the pool,--
There is not only disgrace and dishonour in that,
monster, but an infinite loss.
That's more to me than my wetting: yet this is your
harmless fairy, monster.
I will fetch off my bottle, though I be o'er ears
for my labour.
Prithee, my king, be quiet. Seest thou here,
This is the mouth o' the cell: no noise, and enter.
Do that good mischief which may make this island
Thine own for ever, and I, thy Caliban,
For aye thy foot-licker.
Give me thy hand. I do begin to have bloody thoughts.
O king Stephano! O peer! O worthy Stephano! look
what a wardrobe here is for thee!
Let it alone, thou fool; it is but trash.
O, ho, monster! we know what belongs to a frippery.
O king Stephano!
Put off that gown, Trinculo; by this hand, I'll have
that gown.
Thy grace shall have it.
The dropsy drown this fool I what do you mean
To dote thus on such luggage? Let's alone
And do the murder first: if he awake,
From toe to crown he'll fill our skins with pinches,
Make us strange stuff.
Be you quiet, monster. Mistress line,
is not this my jerkin? Now is the jerkin under
the