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.]
Pro. [Aside.] I had forgot that foul conspiracy Of the beast Caliban, and his confederates,
Against my life; the minute of their plot
Is almost come. [To the Spirits.] Well done-avoid—no
Fer. This is most strange: your father's in some passion That works him strongly.
Miranda.
Never till this day
Saw I him touched with anger so distempered.
Pro. You do look, my son, in a moved sort,
As if you were dismayed. 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:
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 of, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.