The ditty does remember my drown'd father.
This is no mortal business, nor no sound
That the earth owes. I hear it now above me. (1.2.2)
What? I say,
My foot my tutor? Put thy sword up, traitor;
Who makest a show but darest not strike, thy conscience
Is so possess'd with guilt: come from thy ward,
For I can here disarm thee with this stick
And make thy weapon drop. (1.2.56)
This is a most majestic vision, and
Harmoniously charmingly. May I be bold
To think these spirits?
Spirits, which by mine art
I have from their confines call'd to enact
My present fancies. (4.1.9)