Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made On
King, father, royal Dane: O, answer me! What may this mean, that thou, dead corse, again in complete steel revisit'st thus the glimpses of the moon, making night hideous; and we fools of nature so horridly to shake our disposition with thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls?
Speak to me as to thy thinkings, as thou dost ruminate, and give thy worst of thoughts the worst of words.
My Oberon! what visions have I seen! Methought I was enamoured of an ass.
Between the acting of a dreadful thing and the first motion, all the interim is like a phantasma, or a hideous dream: the genius and the mortal instruments are then in council; and the state of man, like to a little kingdom, suffers then the nature of an insurrection.
The quality of mercy is not strained. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath. . . it is an attribute to God himself, and earthly power doth then show likest God’s when mercy seasons justice.
'Tis torture, and not mercy: heaven is here, where Juliet lives; and every cat and dog and little mouse, every unworthy thing, live here in heaven and may look on her; but Romeo may not.
O mighty Caesar! dost thou lie so low? Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils, shrunk to this little measure?
Is this a dagger which I see before me...Come, let me clutch thee. I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible to feeling as to sight? or art thou but a dagger of the mind, a false creation, proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
This story shall the good man teach his son; and Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, from this day to the ending of the world, but we in it shall be remembered – we few, we happy few, we band of brothers; for he to-day that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile, this day shall gentle his condition; and gentlemen in England now-a-bed shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here, and hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks that fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.
It is a familiar beast to man, and signifies love.
The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices make instruments to plague us: the dark and vicious place where thee he got cost him his eyes. Thou hast spoken right, 'tis true; the wheel is come full circle.
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 tow'rs, 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.