If after every tempest come such calms, May the winds blow till they have waken'd death!
Winter, which, being full of care, makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more rare.
Sycorax has grown into a hoop
Can we outrun the heavens?
Tis ever common That men are merriest when they are from home.
You great benefactors, sprinkle our society with thankfulness. For your own gifts, make yourselves praised.