Pro monologue — The Tempest

You doe looke (my son) in a mou'd sort, As if you were dismaid: be cheerefull Sir, Our Reuels now are ended: These our actors, (As I foretold you) were all Spirits, and Are melted into Ayre, into thin Ayre, And like the baselesse fabricke of this vision The Clowd-capt Towres, the gorgeous Pallaces, The solemne Temples, the great Globe it selfe, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolue, And like this insubstantiall Pageant faded Leaue not a racke behinde: we are such stuffe As dreames are made on; and our little life Is rounded with a sleepe: Sir, I am vext, Beare with my weakenesse, my old braine is troubled: Be not disturb'd with my infirmitie, If you be pleas'd, retire into my Cell, And there repose, a turne or two, Ile walke To still my beating minde