I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.

Oh, injurious love, that respites me a life, whose very comfort is still a dying horror

We have some salt of our youth in us.

This is the very ecstasy of love, whose violent property ordoes itself and leads the will to desperate undertakings.

All places that the eye of heaven visits Are to a wise man ports and happy havens. Teach thy necessity to reason thus; There is no virtue like necessity.

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

I dote on his very absence.