The Tempest by William Shakespeare (1611)

The sea heaves, a ship splits on the rocks, and a man on the shore has conjured the whole tempest from nothing, then watches his enemies wash up alive on his island. Prospero, exiled Duke turned sorcerer, has waited twelve years for this hour: the spirit Ariel at his command, the brother who betrayed him within reach, his daughter Miranda about to meet her first young man. And then, at the height of his power, he gives it all up. He breaks his staff, drowns his book, and forgives. The isle, Caliban tells us, is full of noises, sounds and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not, and the whole play shimmers with that strange music. Hear Prospero say we are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep, and you are hearing Shakespeare himself lay down his art. No farewell in the language is gentler, or more complete.