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 woos Even now the frozen bosom of the north, And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence, Turning his face to the dew-dropping south. Il est naturel que nos idees les plus vives et les plus familieres se retracent pendant le sommeil. I had a most curious dream about Min that very night."