Give me an ounce of civet, good apothecary, to sweeten my imagination.

O true apothecary!Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die.

In my mind's eye, Horatio.

HIPPOLYTA

But all the story of the night told over,
And all their minds transfigured so together,
More witnesseth than fancy’s images
And grows to something of great constancy,
But, howsoever, strange and admirable.

We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.

I cannot talk with civet in the room,A fine puss-gentleman that's all perfume.