Here's neither bush nor shrub to bear off
any weather at all, and another storm brewing: I hear it sing
i' th' wind. Yond same black cloud, yond huge one, looks like
a foul bombard that would shed his liquor. If it should thunder
as it did before, I know not where to hide my head. Yond same
cloud cannot choose but fall by pailfuls. What have we here?
a man or a fish? dead or alive? A fish: he smells like a fish;
a very ancient and fishlike smell; a kind of not of the newest
poor-John. A strange fish! Were I in England now, as once I was,
and had but this fish painted, not a holiday fool there but would
give a piece of silver. There would this monster make a man:
any strange beast there makes a man. When they will not give
a doit to relieve a lame beggar, they will lay out ten to see
a dead Indian. Legged like a man! and his fins like arms! Warm,
o' my troth! I do now let loose my opinion, hold it no longer:
this is no fish, but an islander, that hath lately suffered by
a thunderbold. [Thunder.] Alas, the storm is come again!
My best way is to creep under his gaverdine: there is no other
shelter hereabout. Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.
I will here shroud till the dregs of the storm be past.
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