Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, Raze out the written troubles of the brain
Jesters do oft prove prophets.
Her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love
I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano!
There was never yet philosopher that could endure the toothache patiently
My affection hath an unknown bottom, like the Bay of Portugal.