PROSPERO 

Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves, 

And ye that on the sands with printless foot 

Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him 

When he comes back; you demi-puppets, that 

By moon-shine do the green sour ringlets make, 

Whereof the ewe not bites; and you, whose pastime 

Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice 

To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid – 

Weak masters though ye be – I have bedimmed 

The noontide sun, called forth the mutinous winds, 

And ’twixt the green sea and the azured vault

Set roaring war. To the dread rattling thunder 

Have I given fire, and rifted Jove’s stout oak 

With his own bolt; the strong-based promontory 

Have I made shake, and by the spurs plucked up 

The pine and cedar; graves at my command 

Have waked their sleepers, oped, and let ’em forth 

By my so potent art. But this rough magic 

I here abjure. And when I have required 

Some heavenly music – which even now I do – 

To work mine end upon their senses that 

This airy charm is for, I’ll break my staff, 

Bury it certain fathoms in the earth, 

And deeper than did ever plummet sound

I’ll drown my book.