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Saturday, December 17, 2005


[The Tempest, Act IV, 1]: PROSPERO.
You do look, my son, in a mov'd sort,
As if you were dismay'd; be cheerful, sir.


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.

Sir, I am vex'd;
Bear with my weakness; my old brain is troubled!
Be not disturb'd with my infirmity.
If you be pleas'd, retire into my cell
And there repose; a turn or two I'll walk
To still my beating mind

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