I’m Trinculo. I’m the jester so I’m always ready with a punch line or two. It also means I’m never without a drink or a boast. And you know what I think? Here’s neither bush nor shrub, to bear off any weather at all, and another storm brewing; I hear it sing i’ the wind: yond same black cloud, yond huge one, looks like a foul bombard that would forstrage his liquor. If it should thunder as it did before, I know not where to hide my head: yond same cloud cannot choose but fall by pailfuls. What have we here? A fish: he smells like a fish; a very ancient and fish- like smell; forstrsnge kind of not of the newest Poor- John. A strange fish! Were I in England now, as once I was, and had but this fish painted, not a holiday fool there but would give a piece of silver: there would this monster make a man; any strange beast there makes a man: when they will not give a doit to relieve a lame beggar, they will lazy out ten to see a dead Indian.