Golly gosh darn, Chongo. You referin' to Billy Bob's play The Tempest?

...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.

Or do you mean

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,        
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day        
To the last syllable of recorded time;        
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools              
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!        
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player        
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage        
And then is heard no more. It is a tale              
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,        
Signifying nothing.

Or, perhaps,

I gin to be aweary of the sun,        
And wish the estate o' the world were now undone.        
Ring the alarum-bell! Blow, wind! come, wrack!              
At least we'll die with harness on our back.

But, of course, I couldn't expect a dumb old monkey to cite his so-called sources.