'Saith He is terrible: watch His feats in proof!One hurricane will spoil six good months' hope.He hath a spite against me, that I know,Just as He favours Prosper, who knows why?So it is, all the same, as well I find.'Wove wattles half the winter, fenced them firmWith stone and stake to stop she-tortoisesCrawling to lay their eggs here: well, one wave,Feeling the foot of Him upon its neck,Gaped as a snake does, lolled out its large tongue,And licked the whole labour flat: so much for spite.'Saw a ball flame down late (yonder it lies)Where, half an hour before, I slept i' the shade:Often they scatter sparkles: there is force!'Dug up a newt He may have envied onceAnd turned to stone, shut up Inside a stone.Please Him and hinder this?-What Prosper does?Aha, if He would tell me how! Not He!There is the sport: discover how or die!All need not die, for of the things o' the isleSome flee afar, some dive, some run up trees;Those at His mercy,-why, they please Him mostWhen . . . when . . . well, never try the same way twice!Repeat what act has pleased, He may grow wroth.You must not know His ways, and play Him off,Sure of the issue. 'Doth the like himself:'Spareth a squirrel that it nothing fearsBut steals the nut from underneath my thumb,And when I threat, bites stoutly in defence:'Spareth an urchin that contrariwise,Curls up into a ball, pretending deathFor fright at my approach: the two ways please.But what would move my choler more than this,That either creature counted on its lifeTo-morrow and next day and all days to come,Saying, forsooth, in the inmost of its heart,"Because he did so yesterday with me,And otherwise with such another brute,So must he do henceforth and always."-Ay?Would teach the reasoning couple what "must" means!'Doth as he likes, or wherefore Lord? So He.
'Conceiveth all things will continue thus,And we shall have to live in fear of HimSo long as He lives, keeps His strength: no change,If He have done His best, make no new worldTo please Him more, so leave off watching this,-If He surprise not even the Quiet's selfSome strange day,-or, suppose, grow into itAs grubs grow butterflies: else, here are we,And there is He, and nowhere help at all.
'Believeth with the life, the pain shall stop.His dam held different, that after deathHe both plagued enemies and feasted friends:Idly! He doth His worst in this our life,Giving just respite lest we die through pain,Saving last pain for worst,-with which, an end.Meanwhile, the best way to escape His ireIs, not to seem too happy. 'Sees, himself,Yonder two flies, with purple films and pink,Bask on the pompion-bell above: kills both.'Sees two black painful beetles roll their ballOn head and tail as if to save their lives:Moves them the stick away they strive to clear.
Even so, 'would have Him misconceive, supposeThis Caliban strives hard and ails no less,And always, above all else, envies Him;Wherefore he mainly dances on dark nights,Moans in the sun, gets under holes to laugh,And never speaks his mind save housed as now:Outside, 'groans, curses. If He caught me here,O'erheard this speech, and asked "What chucklest at?"'Would, to appease Him, cut a finger off,Or of my three kid yearlings burn the best,Or let the toothsome apples rot on tree,Or push my tame beast for the orc to taste:While myself lit a fire, and made a songAnd sung it, "What I hate, be consecrateTo celebrate Thee and Thy state, no mateFor Thee; what see for envy in poor me?"Hoping the while, since evils sometimes mend,Warts rub away and sores are cured with slime,That some strange day, will either the Quiet catchAnd conquer Setebos, or likelier HeDecrepit may doze, doze, as good as die.
[What, what? A curtain o'er the world at once!Crickets stop hissing: not a bird-or, yes,There scuds His raven that has told Him all!It was fool's play, this prattling! Ha! The windShoulders the pillared dust, death's house o' the move,And fast invading fires begin! White blaze-A tree's head snaps-and there, there, there, there, there,His thunder follows! Fool to gibe at Him!Lo! 'Lieth flat and loveth Setebos!'Maketh his teeth meet through his upper lip,Will let those quails fly, will not eat this monthOne little mess of whelks, so he may 'scape!]