Well then, 'supposeth He is good i' the main,Placable if His mind and ways were guessed,But rougher than His handiwork, be sure!Oh, He hath made things worthier than Himself,And envieth that, so helped, such things do moreThan He who made them! What consoles but this?That they, unless through Him, do nought at all,And must submit: what other use in things?'Hath cut a pipe of pithless elder-jointThat, blown through, gives exact the scream o' the jayWhen from her wing you twitch the feathers blue:Sound this, and little birds that hate the jayFlock 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 makeWith his great round mouth; he must blow through 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 SetebosThat made Him, or He, may be, found and fought,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 joyCould 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 thoseIt works on! 'Careth but for SetebosThe many-handed as a cuttle-fish,Who, making Himself feared through what He does,Looks up, first, and perceives he cannot soarTo what is quiet and hath happy life;Next looks down here, and out of very spiteMakes 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 booksCareless 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 robeThe 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:'Keeps for his Ariel a tall pouch-bill craneHe 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 drudgeIn 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 thingsWhich 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 jointLike an orc's armour? Ay,-so spoil His sport!He is the One now: only He doth all.'Saith, He may like, perchance, what profits Him.Ay, himself loves what does him good; but why?'Gets good no otherwise. This blinded beastLoves whoso places flesh-meat on his nose,But, had he eyes, would want no help, but hateOr love, just as it liked him: He hath eyes.Also it pleaseth Setebos to work,Use all His hands, and exercise much craft,By no means for the love of what is worked.'Tasteth, himself, no finer good i' the worldWhen all goes right, in this safe summer-time,And he wants little, hungers, aches not much,Than trying what to do with wit and strength.'Falls to make something: 'piled yon pile of turfs,And squared and stuck there squares of soft white chalk,And, with a fish-tooth, scratched a moon on each,And set up endwise certain spikes of tree,And crowned the whole with a sloth's skull a-top,Found dead i' the woods, too hard for one to kill.No use at all i' the work, for work's sole sake;'Shall some day knock it down again: so He.'Saith He is terrible: watch His feats in proof!One hurricane will spoil six good months' hope.He hath a spite against me, that I know,Just as He favours Prosper, who knows why?So it is, all the same, as well I find.'Wove wattles half the winter, fenced them firmWith stone and stake to stop she-tortoisesCrawling to lay their eggs here: well, one wave,Feeling the foot of Him upon its neck,Gaped as a snake does, lolled out its large tongue,And licked the whole labour flat: so much for spite.'Saw a ball flame down late (yonder it lies)Where, half an hour before, I slept i' the shade:Often they scatter sparkles: there is force!'Dug up a newt He may have envied onceAnd turned to stone, shut up Inside a stone.Please Him and hinder this?-What Prosper does?Aha, if He would tell me how! Not He!There is the sport: discover how or die!All need not die, for of the things o' the isleSome flee afar, some dive, some run up trees;Those at His mercy,-why, they please Him mostWhen . . . when . . . well, never try the same way twice!Repeat what act has pleased, He may grow wroth.You must not know His ways, and play Him off,Sure of the issue. 'Doth the like himself:'Spareth a squirrel that it nothing fearsBut steals the nut from underneath my thumb,And when I threat, bites stoutly in defence:'Spareth an urchin that contrariwise,Curls up into a ball, pretending deathFor fright at my approach: the two ways please.But what would move my choler more than this,That either creature counted on its lifeTo-morrow and next day and all days to come,Saying, forsooth, in the inmost of its heart,"Because he did so yesterday with me,And otherwise with such another brute,So must he do henceforth and always."-Ay?Would teach the reasoning couple what "must" means!'Doth as he likes, or wherefore Lord? So He.