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The LiederNet Archive

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All the infections that the sun sucks up

Language: English

Caliban
 All the infections that the sun sucks up
 from bogs, fens, flats, on Prosper' fall,
 and make him by inchmeal a disease.
 His spirits hear me, and yet I needs must curse,
 but they'll nor pinch!
 Fright me with urchin shows,
 pitch me in the 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;
 sometimes like apes!
 Then like hedgehogs!
 Sometime am I all wound with adders
 who do hiss me into madness.
 All the infections that the sun sucks up
 from bogs, fens, flats, on Prosper' fall,
 and...
 Lo, now lo!
 Here comes a spirit of his.
 I'll fall flat!
 Perchance he'll not mind me.


Translation(s): FRE ITA

List of language codes

About the headline (FAQ)

Submitted by Emily Ezust [Administrator]

Authorship


Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive)

Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):


Text added to the website: 2007-05-11 00:00:00.

Last modified: 2016-02-13 16:54:04

Line count: 22
Word count: 125

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Tutto il putrido umor che sugge il sole

Language: Italian (Italiano) after the English

Tutto il putrido umor che sugge il sole
Da gora, da palude o da maremma
Piova a Prospero in capo, e lo ricopra
Di tante piaghe, che non v’abbia un solo
Pollice illeso. Ancor che i suoi demòni
Mi stiano ad ascoltar, non so frenarmi
Dal maledirlo. È ver che senza un cenno
Di lui, nè que’ Coboldi a impaurirmi
Verran, nè dentro a fetido pantano
Mi tufferanno, nè di tizzi ardenti
L’immagine prendendo, a notte buja
Mi faranno smarrir la dritta via.
Per nulla ei me li aizza. Or come scimie
Che mi adescano pria con cento lazzi,
Poi mi graffiano il viso; ora in figura
D’istrici che s’aggrupppano in se stesse,
Ed a’ pie’ mi si rotano, ficcando,
Mentre sopra vi passo, i pungiglioni
Nel mio nudo calcagno; ed ora in forma
Di serpi che si avvinghiano al mio corpo,
Ed un sibilo tal colle forcute
Lingue attorno mi fan che ne impazzisco.
                     (Entra Trinculo.)
Oimè! che cosa è quella? Ecco uno spirto
Che viemmi a tribolar perchè vo lento
Col mio fascio di legna. Al suol boccone
Stender mi vo’. Così forse dagli occhi
Potrò sfuggirgli.


About the headline (FAQ)

Submitted by Andrew Schneider [Guest Editor]

Authorship


Based on

Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive)

    [ None yet in the database ]


Text added to the website: 2019-05-09 00:00:00.

Last modified: 2019-05-09 02:27:36

Line count: 28
Word count: 189