I can again thy former light restore, Should I repent me: but once put out thy light, Thou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature, I know not where is that Promethean heat That can thy light relume.

O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath!

Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises.

Now, neighbor confines, purge you of your scum! Have you a ruffian that will swear, drink, dance, revel the night, rob, murder, and commit the oldest sins the newest kind of ways?

When once our grace we have forgot, Nothing goes right.

So foul and fair a day I have not seen.

Beware the ides of March.