Lincoln: Will you shake hands?
Hook: I beg you will excuse me.
He goes. LINCOLN stands silently for a moment, a travelled, lonely captain. He rings a bell, and a CLERK comes in.
Lincoln: Ask Mr. Hay to come in.
Clerk: Yes, sir.
He goes. LINCOLN, from the folds of his pockets, produces another book, and holds it unopened. HAY comes in.
Lincoln: I'm rather tired to-day, Hay. Read to me a little. (He hands him the book.) "The Tempest"—you know the passage.
Hay (reading):
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.
Lincoln: We are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life ...