white-wedge eye I yet could make a live bird out of clay: By moonlight; and the pie with the long Would not I take clay, pinch my Caliban Able to fly? for, there, see, he hath wings, tongue 50 That pricks deep into oakwarts for a worm, And says a plain word when she finds her prize, But will not eat the ants: the ants themselves That build a wall of seeds and settled stalks And great comb like the hoopoe's to admire; And there, a sting to do his foes offence; 80 There, and I will that he begin to live, Fly to yon rock-top, nip me off the horns Of grigs high up that make the merry din, About their hole He made all these Saucy through their veined wings, and and more, 55 mind me not. |