No, no, I am but shadow of myself: You are deceived, my substance is not here.
This goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory.
Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?
Now entertain conjecture of a time When creeping murmur and the poring dark Fills the wide vessel of the universe.
Conceit in weakest bodies works the strongest.
To be now a sensible man, by and by a fool, and presently a beast!