IV. 1. 150 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,
155 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. Sir, I am vex’d;
Bear with my weakness; my old brain is troubled: