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One morning, when Gregor Samsa woke from troubled dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a horrible vermin.

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He lay on his armour-like back, and if he lifted his head a little he could see his brown belly, slightly domed and divided by arches into stiff sections. The bedding was hardly able to cover it and seemed ready to slide off any moment.

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Doubtful it stood; As two spent swimmers, that do cling together And choke their art. The merciless Macdonwald– Worthy to be a rebel, for to that The multiplying villanies of nature Do swarm upon him–from the western isles Of kerns and gallowglasses is supplied; And fortune, on his damned quarrel smiling, Show’d like a rebel’s whore: but all’s too weak: For brave Macbeth–well he deserves that name– Disdaining fortune, with his brandish’d steel, Which smoked with bloody execution, Like valour’s minion carved out his passage Till he faced the slave; Which ne’er shook hands, nor bade farewell to him, Till he unseam’d him from the nave to the chaps, And fix’d his head upon our battlements.