You do look, my son, in a mov'd sort,        
As if you were dismay'd: 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-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,        
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff        
As dreams are made on, and our little life        
Is rounded with a sleep.