Caliban upon Setebos

Robert Browning

‘Thou thoughtest that I was altogether such a one as thyself.’

(David, Psalms 50.21)

[‘Will sprawl, now that the heat of day is best,

Flat on his belly in the pit’s much mire,

With elbows wide, fists clenched to prop his chin.

And, while he kicks both feet in the cool slush,

And feels about his spine small eft-things course,

Run in and out each arm, and make him laugh:

And while above his head a pompion-plant,

Coating the cave-top as a brow its eye,

Creeps down to touch and tickle hair and beard,

And now a flower drops with a bee inside,

And now a fruit to snap at, catch and crunch,—

He looks out o’er yon sea which sunbeams cross

And recross till they weave a spider-web

(Meshes of fire, some great fish breaks at times)

And talks to his own self, howe’er he please,

Touching that other, whom his dam called God.

Because to talk about Him, vexes—ha,

Could He but know! and time to vex is now,

When talk is safer than in winter-time.

Moreover Prosper and Miranda sleep

In confidence he drudges at their task,

And it is good to cheat the pair, and gibe,

Letting the rank tongue blossom into speech.]
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Setebos, Setebos, and Setebos!

‘Thinketh, He dwelleth i’ the cold o’ the moon.
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