The Tempest

by William Shakespeare

I should sin To think but nobly of my grandmother: Good wombs have borne bad sons.

You taught me language; and my profit on't Is, I know how to curse. The red plague rid you For learning me your language!

There's nothing ill can dwell in such a temple: If the ill spirit have so fair a house, Good things will strive to dwell with't.

We are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep.