He hath not eat paper, as it were; he hath not drunk ink; his intellect is not replenished; he is only an animal, only sensible in the duller parts. (Shakespeare, Love's Labor's Lost, IV)
Let me be boiled to death with melancholy.
I will make thee think thy swan a crow.
Like a barber's chair that fits all buttocks.
I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano!
Where shall we three meet again in thunder, lightning, or in rain? When the hurlyburly 's done, when the battle 's lost and won