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.

 
   

 

 
 

Shakespeare, The Tempest