When thou cam'st first, Thou strok'st me and made much of me; wouldst give me Water with berries in't; and teach me how To name the bigger light, and how the less, That burn by day and night; and then I loved thee And showed thee all the qualities o' th' isle, The fresh springs, brine-pits, barren place and fertile.

Ay, is it not a language I speak?

And blind oblivion swallowed cities up.

Great griefs medicine the less.

The old folk, time's doting chronicles.

It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.

I have supped full with horrors.