A devil, a born devil, on whose nature Nurture can never stick; on whom my pains, Humanely taken, all, all lost, quite lost; And as with age his body uglier grows, So his mind cankers. I will plague them all, Even to roaring.

Pray you, tread softly, that the blind mole may not Hear a foot fall: we now are near his cell.

Good my lord, give me thy favour still. Be patient, for the prize I’ll bring thee to Shall hoodwink this mischance: therefore speak softly. All’s hush’d as midnight yet.

Prithee, my king, be quiet. Seest thou here, This is the mouth o’ the cell: no noise, and enter. Do that good mischief which may make this island Thine own for ever, and I, thy Caliban, For aye thy foot-licker.