Now my charms are all o'erthrown.
My life, my joy, my food, my ail the world!
Crack'd in pieces by malignant Death.
For 'tis the sport to have the engineerHoist with his own petard.
Tired with all these, for restful death I cry.
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)