He went like one that hath been stunn'd, And is of sense forlorn: A sadder and a wiser man He rose the morrow morn.
And to be wroth with one we love…Doth work like madness in the brain.
One thought includes all thought, in the sense that a grain of sand includes the universe.
Talk of the devil, and his horns appear.
When a man mistakes his thoughts for persons and things, he is mad.
Poetry is certainly something more than good sense, but it must be good sense, at all events, just as a palace is more than a house, but it must be a house, at least.