All fancy-sick she is and pale of cheer, with sighs of love, that costs the fresh blood dear.

O! Let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven; keep me in temper; I would not be mad!

Wish chastely, and love dearly.

There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

Lovers and madmen have such seething brains Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend More than cool reason ever comprehends.

Death is my son-in-law. Death is my heir. My daughter he hath wedded. I will die, And leave him all. Life, living, all is Death’s.

Now see that noble and most sovereign reason, Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh.