Prospero, the exiled Duke of Milan and powerful sorcerer, reflects on the transience of life after presenting a magical masque. He compares all of existence to a theatrical performance that must eventually fade away.
Prospero has just staged an elaborate betrothal masque for Ferdinand and Miranda, conjuring Iris, Ceres, Juno and a dance of nymphs and reapers. Mid-celebration he suddenly remembers Caliban, Stephano and Trinculo's plot against his life — they are at this moment creeping toward his cell. He breaks the masque off with a "strange, hollow, and confused noise" and the spirits vanish heavily. Ferdinand notices that his soon-to-be father-in-law looks shaken ("Your father's in some passion / That works him strongly"), and Prospero delivers this speech to reassure him before turning to the immediate business of dealing with the conspirators. It is one of the last great lyric speeches in Shakespeare's career — many read it as the playwright's own valediction, though Prospero still has substantial work to do in the play after this moment.
Prospero wants to calm Ferdinand without admitting how much the interrupted vision has shaken him. He is composing himself by speaking, using the consolatory grandeur of the speech as a way to steady his own breathing. What he is actually processing is the recognition that even his magic — the height of human art — cannot finally stand against time, mortality and the persistence of evil (Caliban). The speech moves from the specific (these actors, this masque) to the cosmic (the great globe itself) to the intimate (we are such stuff as dreams are made on). He is a magus confronting the limits of his art, a father about to lose his daughter to marriage, and a man whose stomach has just turned over. He plays calm; he is not calm.
Resist the velvet-curtain delivery. This speech has been so often performed as a wise old wizard's set-piece that the easiest mistake is reverence. Prospero is rattled — Ferdinand notices it explicitly two lines earlier. The speech is a recovery, not a sermon. Use Ferdinand. He is your scene partner and your reason for speaking; if you generalise the address, the speech becomes pretty noise. Mark the threefold expansion: "these our actors" (small), "the great globe itself" (cosmic, possibly punning on the Globe theatre above your head), "we are such stuff" (intimate, personal). The "cloud-capped towers" sequence wants air and length — don't rattle through the catalogue. The turn at "We are such stuff" is the heart; let it cost something. The final couplet ("Sir, I am vexed... be not disturbed with my infirmity") is admission, not deflection — Prospero is telling Ferdinand he is not well. Tempo: slow but not solemn; the slowness is gravity, not pomp. Avoid the actorly tear on "dreams."
Traditionally a piece for older actors and frequently used as a retirement or farewell speech, which can work against you in an audition for active roles. If you are over fifty and auditioning for classical theatres, it shows mature verse-handling and emotional restraint under pressure. Younger actors can use it but should be aware that they are working against the speech's cultural baggage. Strong for showing intelligence, breath control, and the capacity to land complex sustained thought without bombast. Heavily over-used at memorial services and graduation ceremonies, which means audition panels have heard it many times in earnest mode — your version needs to have a different temperature. Pair with something more active if the audition wants range. Cut to twelve to fifteen lines for most audition contexts.
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-capp'd 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 vex'd;
Bear with my weakness; my old brain is troubled:
Be not disturb'd 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.