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.