True, I talk of dreams;
Which are the children of an idle brain,
Begot of nothing but vain fantasy;
Which is as thin of substance as the air;
And more inconstant than the wind, who wooes
Even now the frozen bosom of the north,
And, being anger’d, puffs away from thence,
Turning his face to the dew-dropping south.
The wind, you talk of, blows us from ourselves;
Supper is done, and we shall come too late.
William Shakespeare. Romeo and Juliet. 1594