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.

Now join your hands, and with your hands your hearts.

Your date is better in your pie and your porridge than in your cheek.

There should be hours for necessities, not for delights; times to repair our nature with comforting repose, and not for us to waste these times.

These are the forgeries of jealousy; And never, since the middle summer's spring, Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead, By paved fountain or by rushy brook, Or in the beached margent of the sea, To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, But with thy brawls thou hast disturbed our sport.

I have seen better faces in my time Than stands on any shoulder that I see Before me at this instant.

A man loves the meat in his youth that he cannot endure in his age.