We came into the world like brother and brother, And now let's go hand in hand, not one before another.

I stalk about her door, like a strange soul upon the Stygian banks staying for waftage.

True, I talk of dreams, Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy.

Nor shall this peace sleep with her; but as when The bird of wonder dies, the maiden phoenix, Her ashes new-create another heir As great in admiration as herself.

Sycorax has grown into a hoop

Good hay, sweet hay, hath no fellow.

Oh! that you could turn your eyes towards the napes of your necks, and make but an interior survey of your good selves.