The Tempest (Dover Thrift Editions: Plays)

O, a cherubim Thou wast that did preserve me.

These are but wild and whirling words, my lord.

Where, as they had deliver'd, both in time, Form of the thing, each word made true and good, The apparition comes:

Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood, Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres, Thy knotted and combined locks to part And each particular hair to stand on end, Like quills upon the fretful porpentine: