Imagination, once lit up within
And unconditional of time and space,
Can pour infinities.

SEG.
And I remember
How the old man they call'd the King, who wore
The crown of gold about his silver hair,
And a mysterious girdle round his waist,
Just when my rage was roaring at its height,
And after which it all was dark again,
Bid me beware lest all should be a dream.

CLO.
Ay--there another specialty of dreams,
That once the dreamer 'gins to dream he dreams,
His foot is on the very verge of waking.

SEG.
Would it had been upon the verge of death
That knows no waking--
Lifting me up to glory, to fall back,
Stunn'd, crippled--wretcheder than ev'n before.

CLO.
Yet not so glorious, Segismund, if you
Your visionary honour wore so ill
As to work murder and revenge on those
Who meant you well.