The Tempest

by William Shakespeare

Good wombs have borne bad sons.

Knowing I lov’d my books, he furnish’d me, From mine own library with volumes that 195 I prize above my dukedom.

“Hell is empty, And all the devils are here.”

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

A devil, a born devil, on whose nature Nurture can never stick; on whom my pains, Humanely taken, all, all lost, quite lost; And as with age his body uglier grows, 210 So his mind cankers. I will plague them all, Even to roaring.

Sir, she is mortal; But by immortal Providence she’s mine.

Mercy itself, and frees all faults. As you from crimes would pardon’d be, 20 Let your indulgence set me free.