Are melted into air, into thin air; And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherits, shall dis solve, And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind: we are such stuff As dreams are made of, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep. Tempest, act. iv. sc. 4. |