Many that are not mad have, sure, more lack of reason.
Gold--what can it not do, and undo?
There's no art to find the mind's construction in the face.
Do not, as some ungracious pastors do, Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven; Whilst, like a puff'd and reckless libertine, Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads And recks not his own read.
Thou art sad; get thee a wife, get thee a wife!
Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.