This page needs to be proofread.
THE TEMPEST
| Page | |
|
| |
| Iris. | |
| I met her deity Cutting the clouds towards Paphos (page 110), |
94 |
| Iris. | |
| You Nymphs, call'd Naiads, of the windring brooks, Leave your crisp channels (page 112), |
108 |
| Prospero. | |
| We are such stuff As dreams are made on (page 114), |
112 |
| Ariel. | |
| All prisoners, sir, In the line-grove which weather-fends your cell (page 123), |
120 |
| Prospero. | |
| You demi-puppets that By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make (page 125), |
124 |
| Prospero. | |
| Graves at my command Have waked their sleepers (page 126), |
130 |
| Boatswain. | |
| And were brought moping hither (page 137), | 136 |
| Prospero. | |
| Calm seas, auspicious gales, And sail so expeditious (page 142), |
140 |
