The Tempest

by William Shakespeare

A pox o’ your throat, you bawling, blasphemous, incharitable dog!

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

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

The truth you speak doth lack some gentleness, And time to speak it in: you rub the sore, When you should bring the plaster.

what’s past is prologue; what to come In yours and my discharge.

misery acquaints a man with strange bed-fellows.

I am your wife, if you will marry me; If not, I’ll die your maid: to be your fellow 100 You may deny me; but I’ll be your servant, Whether you will or no.

Thought is free.

Now I will believe That there are unicorns;

Monster, I do smell all horse-piss; at which my nose is in great indignation.

Let us not burden our remembrances with A heaviness that’s gone.