For My Own Part, I Shall Be

Sycorax Has Grown Into A Hoop

Go Hang Yourself, You Naughty Mocking Uncle!

What's More To Do, Which Would Be Planted Newly With The Time, As Calling Home Our Exiled Friends Abroad That Fled The Snares Of Watchful Tyranny, Producing Forth The Cruel Ministers Of This Dead Butcher And His Fiend-like Queen, Who, As 'tis Thought, By Self And Violent Hands Took Off Her Life; This, And What Needful Else That Calls Upon Us, By The Grace Of Grace We Will Perform In Measure, Time, And Place.

A Wicked Conscience Mouldeth Goblins Swift As Frenzy Thoughts.

The King Hath Note Of All That They Intend, By Interception Which They Dream Not Of.