Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows. Alas, the storm is come again! My best way is to creep under his gaverdine: there is no other shelter hereabout. 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. When they will not give a doit to relieve a lame beggar, they will lay out ten to see a dead Indian. There would this monster make a man: any strange beast there makes a man. 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. 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. Yond same cloud cannot choose but fall by pailfuls. If it should thunder as it did before, I know not where to hide my head. Yond same black cloud, yond huge one, looks like a foul bombard that would shed his liquor. TRINCULO: Here's neither bush nor shrub to bear off any weather at all, and another storm brewing: I hear it sing i' th' wind.
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