When great leaves fall, the winter is at hand.

We know what we are, but know not what we may be.

This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet

Ay, but to die, and go we know not where.

Sycorax has grown into a hoop

So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.

Within the book and volume of thy brain.