GONZALO Now, good angels Preserve the King! [They wake]

ALONSO Why, how now?-Ho, awake!-Why are you drawn? Wherefore this ghastly looking? GONZALO What’s the matter? SEBASTIAN Whiles we stood here securing your repose, Even now, we heard a hollow burst of bellowing Like bulls, or rather lions; did’t not wake you? It struck mine ear most terribly.

ALONSO I heard nothing.

ANTONIO O, ‘twas a din to fright a monster’s ear, To make an earthquake! Sure it was the roar Of a whole herd of lions.

ALONSO Heard you this, Gonzalo? GONZALO Upon mine honour, sir, I heard a humming, And that a strange one too, which did awake me; I shak’d you, sir, and cried; as mine eyes open’d, I saw their weapons drawn-there was a noise, That’s verily. ‘Tis best we stand upon our guard, Or that we quit this place. Let’s draw our weapons.

ALONSO Lead off this ground; and let’s make further search For my poor son. GONZALO Heavens keep him from these beasts!

For he is, sure, i’ th’ island. ALONSO Lead away. ARIEL Prospero my lord shall know what I have done; So, King, go safely on to seek thy son.

Exeunt SCENE 2 Another part of the island Enter CALIBAN, with a burden of wood. A noise of thunder heard CALIBAN All the infections that the sun sucks up From bogs, fens, flats, on Prosper fall, and make him By inch-meal a disease! 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; Sometime 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.

Enter TRINCULO 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.

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. What have we here? a man or a fish? dead or alive? A fish: he smells like a fish; a very ancient and fish-like smell; 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