I will be brief. Your noble son is mad.

I stalk about her door, like a strange soul upon the Stygian banks staying for waftage.

True, I talk of dreams, Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy.

What's brave, what's noble, let's do it after the Roman fashion.

And yet,to say the truth, reason and love keep little company together nowadays.

I had rather have a fool to make me merry than experience to make me sad and to travel for it too!

Affection, mistress of passion, sways it to the mood of what it likes or loathes.