Fidelia112

      We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life, is rounded with a sleep.

              I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again:
     Mine ear is much enamour'd of thy note;
      So is mine eye enthralled to thy shape;
      And thy fair virtue's force perforce doth move me
       On the first view to say, to swear, I love thee.

“Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more; it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”