These our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits, and Are melted into air, into thin air: 165 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 dissolve And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, 170 Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep.
