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)

But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restored and sorrows end.

O madam, my old heart is cracked, it's cracked!

No, no, I am but shadow of myself: You are deceived, my substance is not here.

I can get no remedy against this consumption of the purse: borrowing only lingers and lingers it out, but the disease is incurable.

If thou dost marry, I'll give thee this plague for thy dowry: be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny.

Sometimes we are devils to ourselves When we will tempt the frailty of our powers, Presuming on their changeful potency.