Read it through once

PROSPERO. You do look, my son, in a mov’d sort, As if you were dismay’d: 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 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 pleas’d, retire into my cell And there repose: a turn or two I’ll walk, To still my beating mind.