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-clapp'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.  . . .