There's rosemary, that's for remembrance; pray you, love, remember: and there is pansies, that's for thoughts. There's fennel for you, and columbines: — there 's rue for you; and here's some for me: — we may call it, herb of grace o'Sundays: — you may wear your rue with a difference. — There's a daisy: — I would give you some violets; but they withered all, when my father died: — They say, he made a good end.

Venus smiles not in a house of tears.

Is he on his horse? O happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony!

O, let him pass. He hates him That would upon the rack of this tough world Stretch him out longer.

Tear-falling pity dwells not in this eye.

Why what a fool was I to this drunken monster for a God. - Caliban

The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, are of imagination all compact.