We Will All Laugh At Gilded Butterflies.

Who Is So Firm That Can't Be Seduced?

In The Night, Imagining Some Fear, How Easy Is A Bush Supposed A Bear!

Who Is Here So Vile That Will Not Love His Country?

Come, And Take Choice Of All My Library, And So Beguile Thy Sorrow.

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.