O, had I but followed the arts!
When in that moment,—so it came to pass,— Titania wak'd, and straightway lov'd an ass.
Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, are of imagination all compact.
Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers: the sleeping and the dead are but as pictures: ‘tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil.
Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind; The thief doth fear each bush an officer.