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.

'Am strong myself compared to yonder Would not I smash it with my foot? So crabs

These good things to match those as hips Or plate my scalp with bone against the do grapes.

Wrote thereon, he knows what, prodigious Ay, himself loves what does him good; words;