“Art thou a silkworm? Dost thou spin thy own shroud out of thyself? Look at thy bosom! Despatch! and get these traps out of sight.”

“He goes aft. That was sudden, now; but squalls come sudden in hot latitudes. I’ve heard that the Isle of Albemarle, one of the Galápagos, is cut by the Equator right in the middle. Seems to me some sort of Equator cuts yon old man, too, right in his middle. He’s always under the Line⁠—fiery hot, I tell ye! He’s looking this way⁠—come, oakum; quick. Here we go again. This wooden mallet is the cork, and I’m the professor of musical glasses⁠—tap, tap!”

Ahab to himself.