Epilogue

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 inherit it shall dissolve

And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,

Leave not a rack behind.

We are such stuff

Dreams are made on, and our little life

Is rounded with a sleep.

                                              William Shakespeare's  "The Tempest"

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