By

William Shakespeare

Our Revels now are ended. These our actor,

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-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,

The solemn temples, the great globe itself

Yea, all which it inherit, shall disolve

And, like this insubstantial pagent faded,

Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff

As dreams are made on, and our little life

Is rounded with sleep.

(From THE TEMPEST)