When senses run together, dull in the rack Of night, it’s Chaos who culls true meaning. He mocks the light of day in paradox Sings: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
The ****** end, embodies the souls' watery Beginning, and so the beating star is all Intermingled; until flesh and fibers are done, Thus: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
Though mighty Jove, who beat the antique world Down, cast poor Agamemnon his fate, it’s Helen of Troy whose aisling breaks like doom,
All from the strain of Leda and the Swan. For, ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on, And our little life is rounded with a sleep.'