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