[On stage are Prospero, Ferdinand, and Miranda, 'Before Prospero's Cell.'] Fer. This is strange. Your father's in some passion, That works him strongly. Mir.                             Never till this day Saw I him touch'd with anger, so distemper'd. Pros: You do look, my son, in a mov'd 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-capped 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.                                       Sir, I am vex'd,– Bear with my weakness – my old brain is troubled. Be not disturb'd with my infirmity. If you be pleased, retire into my cell And there repose: A turn or two I'll walk To still my beating mind. Fer. & Mir:                    We wish you peace. (Exeunt)