I am not mad: I would to heaven I were! For then, 'tis like I should forget myself: O, if I could, what grief should I forget! Preach some philosophy to make me mad, And thou shalt be canonized, cardinal.
Because it is a customary cross, As die to love as thoughts, and dreams, and sighs, Wishes, and tears, poor fancy's followers.
Timon: Would thou wert clean enough to spit upon!
Rumour doth double, like the voice and echo, The numbers of the fear'd.
We two alone will sing like bids i' th' cage.
When I saw you, I fell in love, and you smiled because you knew.
How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world.
Mercy but murders pardoning those who kill.
The rest, is silence.