STEPHANO.
I shall no more to sea, to sea,
Here shall I die a-shore: —
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,
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 savour of tar nor of pitch,
Yet a tailor might scratch her wher-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.
[Drinks]
CALIBAN.
Do not torment me: O!
STEPHANO.
What's the matter? Have we devils here? Do you
put tricks upon us with savages and men of Ind? Ha! I
have not 'scaped 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 's
nostrils.
