You do look (my son) in a mov’d sort,

As if you were dismayed: be cheerful sir,

Our revels now are ended: These our actors,

(As I foretold you) were all spirits, and

Are melted into air, into thin air,

And like the baseless fabric of this vision

The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces,

The solemn temples, the great globe itself,

Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,

And like this insubstantial pageant faded

Leave not a rack behind: we are such stuff

As dreams are made on; and our little life

Is rounded with a sleep.

William Shakespeare