To be His mate:  as well have made Himself: 
He would not make what He mislikes or slights,
An eyesore to Him, or not worth His pains; 60
But did, in envy, listlessness, or sport,
Make what Himself would fain, in a manner, be—­
Weaker in most points, stronger in a few,
Worthy, and yet mere playthings all the while,
Things He admires and mocks too,—­that is it! 
Because, so brave, so better tho’ they be,
It nothing skills if He begin to plague. 
Look now, I melt a gourd-fruit into mash,
Add honeycomb and pods, I have perceived,
Which bite like finches when they bill and kiss,—­ 70
Then, when froth rises bladdery, drink up all,
Quick, quick, till maggots scamper thro’ my brain;
Last, throw me on my back i’ the seeded thyme. 
And wanton, wishing I were born a bird. 
Put case, unable to be what I wish,
I yet could make a live bird out of clay: 
Would not I take clay, pinch my Caliban
Able to fly?—­for there, see, he hath wings,
And great comb like the hoopoe’s to admire,
And there, a sting to do his foes offence, 80
There, and I will that he begin to live,
Fly to yon rock-top, nip me off the horns
Of grigs high up that make the merry din,
Saucy thro’ their veined wings, and mind me not. 
In which feat, if his leg snapped, brittle clay,
And he lay stupid-like,—­why, I should laugh;
And if he, spying me, should fall to weep,
Beseech me to be good, repair his wrong,
Bid his poor leg smart less or grow again,—­
Well, as the chance were, this might take or else 90
Not take my fancy:  I might hear his cry,
And give the mankin three sound legs for one,
Or pluck the other off, leave him like an egg,
And lessoned he was mine and merely clay. 
Were this no pleasure, lying in the thyme,
Drinking the mash, with brain become alive,
Making and marring clay at will?  So He.

’Thinketh such shows nor right nor wrong in Him,
Nor kind, nor cruel:  He is strong and Lord. 
’Am strong myself compared to yonder crabs 100
That march now from the mountain to the sea;
’Let twenty pass, and stone the twenty-first,
Loving not, hating not, just choosing so. 
’Say, the first straggler that boasts purple spots
Shall join the file, one pincer twisted off;
’Say, this bruised fellow shall receive a worm. 
And two worms he whose nippers end in red: 
As it likes me each time, I do:  so He.

Well then, ‘supposeth He is good i’ the main,
Placable if His mind and ways were guessed, 110
But rougher than His handiwork, be sure! 
Oh, He hath made things worthier than Himself,
And envieth that, so helped, such things do more
Than He who made them!  What consoles but this?