Act I

’Tis a villain, sir,

I do not love to look on.

But, as ’tis,

We cannot miss him: he does make our fire,

Fetch in our wood and serves in offices

That profit us. What, ho! slave! Caliban!

Thou earth, thou! speak.

There’s wood enough within.

Come forth, I say! there’s other business for thee:

Come, thou tortoise! when?