Page 1103 - Shakespeare - Vol. 4

You sunburn’d sicklemen, of August weary,
Come hither from the furrow, and be merry: [135]
Make holiday; your rye-straw hats put on,
And these fresh nymphs encounter every one

In country footing.

Enter certain Reapers, properly habited: they join with the Nymphs in a
graceful dance; towards the end whereof Prospero starts suddenly, and
speaks; after which, to a strange, hollow, and confused noise, they heavily
vanish.

PROSPERO
[aside] I had forgot that foul conspiracy
Of the beast Caliban and his confederates [140]
Against my life: the minute of their plot
Is almost come. [To the Spirits.] Well done! avoid; no more!

FERDINAND

This is strange: your father’s in some passion
That works him strongly.

MIRANDA
Never till this day
Saw I him touch’d with anger, so distemper’d. [145]

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: [150]

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, [155]

Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life