Archive
or B.Chad's
Homepage.Ferdinand. This is strange. Your father's in some passion
That works him strongly.
Miranda. Never till this day
Saw I him touched with anger so distempered.
Prospero. You do look, my son, in a moved sort,
As if you were dismayed. 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-capped 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.
Based on, with enormous respect,
The Folger Library General Reader's Shakespeare