How low am I, thou painted maypole?

The will of man is by his reason sway'd.

Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man in all Venice. His reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff: you shall seek all day ere you find them, and when you have them, they are not worth the search.

Be wise as thou art cruel, do not press My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain: Lest sorrow lend me words and words express, The manner of my pity-wanting pain.

The expedition of my violent love outrun the pauser, reason.

Go to you bosom: Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know.

He's loved of the distracted multitude, who like not in their judgement, but their eyes.