We are such stuff as dreams are made on; and our little life is rounded with a sleep.
You taught me language, and my profit on't / Is, I know how to curse
Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.
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.
Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises, Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not. Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments Will hum about mine ears; and sometime voices, That, if I then had waked after long sleep, Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming, The clouds methought would open, and show riches Ready to drop upon me; that, when I waked, I cried to dream again.
...and then, in dreaming, / The clouds methought would open and show riches / Ready to drop upon me, that when I waked / I cried to dream again.
Nothing of him that doth fade But doth suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange
Full fathom five thy father lies
When I waked, I cried to dream again
Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground.
O, wonder! How many goodly creatures are there here! How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world, That has such people in't!
Full fathom five thy father lies; Of his bones are coral made; Those are pearls that were his eyes; Nothing of him that doth fade, But doth suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange. Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: Ding-dong. Hark! now I hear them — Ding-dong, bell.
Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises.
He that dies pays all debts.
There's nothing ill can dwell in such a temple. If the ill spirit have so fair a house, Good things will strive to dwell with't
What seest thou else In the dark backward and abysm of time?
The time is out of joint : O cursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right!
The rarer action is in virtue than in vengeance.
All is well that ends well
I'll break my staff, bury it certain fathoms in the earth, and deeper than did ever plummet sound, I'll drown my book!
or simply: