Dream on, dream on, of bloody deeds and death.

Though justice be thy plea consider this, that in the course of justice none of us should see salvation.

If she be not honest, chaste, and true, there's no man happy.

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.

Pride went before, ambition follows him.

Is not the truth the truth?

Because it is a customary cross, As die to love as thoughts, and dreams, and sighs, Wishes, and tears, poor fancy's followers.