There’s wood enough within.
As wicked dew as e’er my mother brush’d
With raven’s feather from unwholesome fen
Drop on you both! A south-west blow on ye,
And blister you all o’er!
I must eat my dinner.
This island’s mine by Sycorax my mother,
Which thou tak’st from me. When thou cam’st first,
Thou strok’st me and made much of me, wouldst give me
Water with berries in’t, and teach me how
To name the bigger light, and how the less,
That burn by day and night; and then I lov’d thee
And show’d thee all the qualities o’ th’ isle,
The fresh springs, brine-pits, barren place and fertile.
Curs’d be I that did so! All the charms
Of Sycorax, toads, beetles, bats, light on you!
For I am all the subjects that you have,
Which first was mine own king; and here you sty me
In this hard rock, whiles you do keep from me
The rest o’ th’ island.
You taught me language, and my profit on’t
Is, I know how to curse. The red-plague rid you
For learning me your language!