{"id":"01KG8AZ4E8Y1SW8PAQ3SJXSYD8","cid":"bafkreickm3q4dfmod6bygrqzt22txmz3ywujy5agwqutry5tcaz2iefr4a","type":"file","properties":{"cid":"bafkreibf4mdc6xvtbzjotv2xmu4uoaho3ene2a2ey3lc6vrv5ckldr63ke","content_type":"image/jpeg","filename":"01_tempest_1901_illustrated_bell_page_0064.jpg","height":2400,"key":"pdf-page-1769806466694-li4mmxph7wl","label":"01_tempest_1901_illustrated_bell_page_0064.jpg","page_number":64,"pdf_type":"born_digital","size":534431,"text":"ACT TWO THE TEMPEST SCENE TWO\nFor bringing wood in slowly. I '11 fall flat ;Perchance he will not mind me.\nTrlaculo. Here's neither bush nor shrub, to bear off any\nweather at all, and another storm brewing ; I hear it sing\ni' the wind : yond same black cloud, yond huge one, looks\nlike a foul bombard that would shed his liquor. If it\nshould thunder as it did before, I know not where to hide\nmy head : yond same cloud cannot choose but fall by pail-\nfuls. What have we here? a man or a fish? dead or\nalive ? A fish : he smells like a fish ; a very ancient and\nfish-like smell ; a kind of not of the newest Poor-John.\nA strange fish I Were I in England now, as once I was,\nand had but this fish painted, not a holiday fool there\nbut would give a piece of silver : there would this monster\nmake a man ; any strange beast there makes a man :\nwhen they will not give a doit to relieve a lame beggar,\nthey will lay out ten to see a dead Indian. Legged like\na man 1 and his fins like arms ! Warm o' my troth ! I do\nnow let loose my opinion ; hold it no longer : this is no\nfish, but an islander, that hath lately suffered by a thunder-\nbolt. [Thunder.] Alas, the storm is come again! my best\nway is to creep under his gaberdine ; there is no other shelter\nhereabout : misery acquaints a man with strange bed-fellows.\nI will here shroud till the dregs of the storm be past.\n{Enter Stephana, singing: a bottle in his hand.]\nStephana. I shall no more to sea, to sea,\nHere shall I die a-shore, —\nThis is a very scurvy tune to sing at a man's funeral:\nwell, here's my comfort. [Drinks.\n[Sings.The master, the swabber, the boatswain, and I,\nThe gunner, and his mate,\nLoved Moll, Meg, and Marian, and Margery,\nBut none of us cared for Kate ;\nFor she had a tongue with a tang,\nWould cry to a sailor, Go hang 1\nShe loved not the savour of tar nor of pitch ;\nYet a tailor might scratch her where'er she did itch.\nThen, to sea, boys, and let her go hang!\nThis is a scurvy tune too : but here 's my comfort. [Drinks.\n48","text_extracted_at":"2026-01-30T20:54:26.694Z","text_extracted_by":"pdf-processor","text_has_content":true,"text_source":"born_digital","uploaded":true,"width":1642},"relationships":[{"peer":"01KG89K56V71HSK5HCYTVQK4G2","predicate":"derived_from"},{"peer":"01KG89JREDR8WY5QQGYR5FZRDY","peer_type":"collection","predicate":"collection"},{"peer":"01KG8AZ48EMZ49RZ83MBNG1FW4","predicate":"prev"},{"peer":"01KG8AZ4R58SN5RH00WKBJ7F1Q","predicate":"next"}],"ver":3,"created_at":"2026-01-30T20:54:27.528Z","ts":"2026-01-30T21:01:49.266Z","edited_by":{"method":"manual","user_id":"01KFFH6ETXGRVD10WPNP3007D6"}}