This is strange. Your father’s in some passion

Ferdinand, to Miranda
This is strange. Your father’s in some passion
That works him strongly.
Miranda
Never till this day
Saw I him touched with anger, so distempered.

Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air

Prospero, to Ferdinand
You do look, my son, in a moved 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 vexed.
Bear with my weakness. My old brain is troubled.
Be not disturbed 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.
Ferdinand/Miranda
We wish your peace.
 They exit.