That they, unless thro’ Him, do naught at all,
And must submit:  what other use in things? 
’Hath cut a pipe of pithless elder-joint
That, blown through, gives exact the scream o’ the jay
When from her wing you twitch the feathers blue;
Sound this, and little birds that hate the jay 120
Flock within stone’s throw, glad their foe is hurt: 
Put case such pipe could prattle and boast forsooth
“I catch the birds, I am the crafty thing,
I make the cry my maker cannot make
With his great round mouth; he must blow thro’ mine!”
Would not I smash it with my foot?  So He.

But wherefore rough, why cold and ill at ease? 
Aha, that is a question!  Ask, for that,
What knows,—­the something over Setebos
That made Him, or He, may be, found and fought, 130
Worsted, drove off and did to nothing, perchance. 
There may be something quiet o’er His head,
Out of His reach, that feels nor joy nor grief,
Since both derive from weakness in some way. 
I joy because the quails come; would not joy
Could I bring quails here when I have a mind: 
This Quiet, all it hath a mind to, doth. 
’Esteemeth stars the outposts of its couch,
But never spends much thought nor care that way. 
It may look up, work up,—­the worse for those 140
It works on!  ’Careth but for Setebos
The many-handed as a cuttle-fish,
Who, making Himself feared thro’ what He does,
Looks up, first, and perceives he cannot soar
To what is quiet and hath happy life;
Next looks down here, and out of very spite
Makes this a bauble-world to ape yon real,
These good things to match those as hips do grapes. 
’Tis solace making baubles, ay, and sport. 
Himself peeped late, eyed Prosper at his books 150
Careless and lofty, lord now of the isle: 
Vexed, ’stitched a book of broad leaves, arrow-shaped,
Wrote thereon, he knows what, prodigious words;
Has peeled a wand and called it by a name;
Weareth at whiles for an enchanter’s robe
The eyed skin of a supple oncelot;
And hath an ounce sleeker than youngling mole,
A four-legged serpent he makes cower and couch,
Now snarl, now hold its breath and mind his eye,
And saith she is Miranda and my wife:  160
’Keeps for his Ariel a tall pouch-bill crane
He bids go wade for fish and straight disgorge;
Also a sea-beast, lumpish, which he snared,
Blinded the eyes of, and brought somewhat tame,
And split its toe-webs, and now pens the drudge
In a hole o’ the rock, and calls him Caliban;
A bitter heart that bides its time and bites. 
’Plays thus at being Prosper in a way,
Taketh his mirth with make-believes:  so He.

His dam held that the Quiet made all things 170
Which Setebos vexed only:  ’holds not so. 
Who made them weak, meant weakness He might vex. 
Had He meant other, while His hand was in,
Why not make horny eyes no thorn could prick,
Or plate my scalp with bone against the snow,
Or overscale my flesh ’neath joint and joint,
Like an orc’s armour?  Ay,—­so spoil His sport! 
He is the One now:  only He doth all.