Enter Stephano, singing, a bottle in his hand.
“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.
“The master, the swabber, the boatswain, and I,
The gunner and his mate,
Lov’d Mall, Meg, and Marian, and Margery,
But none of us car’d for Kate;
For she had a tongue with a tang,
Would cry to a sailor, ‘Go hang!’
She lov’d not the savor of tar nor of pitch,
Yet a tailor might scratch her where e’er she did itch.
Then to sea, boys, and let her go hang!”
This is a scurvy tune too; but here’s my comfort.
What’s the matter? Have we devils here? Do you put tricks upon ’s with salvages and men of Inde? Ha? I have not scap’d drowning to be afeard now of your four legs; for it hath been said, “As proper a man as ever went on four legs cannot make him give ground”; and it shall be said so again while Stephano breathes at’ nostrils. This is some monster of the isle with four legs, who hath got (as I take it) an ague. Where the devil should he learn our language? I will give him some relief, if it be but for that. If I can recover him, and keep him tame, and get to Naples with him, he’s a present for any emperor that ever trod on neat’s-leather. He’s in his fit now, and does not talk after the wisest. He shall taste of my bottle; if he have never drunk wine afore, it will go near to remove his fit. If I can recover him, and keep him tame, I will not take too much for him; he shall pay for him that hath him, and that soundly. Come on your ways. Open your mouth; here is that which will give language to you, cat. Open your mouth; this will shake your shaking, I can tell you, and that soundly. You cannot tell who’s your friend. Open your chaps again.