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)

Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot. Take thou what course thou wilt.

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank Here we will sit, and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears; soft stillness, and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony

Love is merely a madness, and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do.

The devil knew what he did when he made men politic; he crossed himself by it.

If it be a sin to covet honor, I am the most offending soul.

There's villainous news abroad.