His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles; his love sincere, his thoughts immaculate; his tears pure messengers sent from his heart; his heart as far from fraud, as heaven from earth
Though this be madness, yet there is method in't.
Care is no cure, but rather corrosive, For things that are not to be remedied.
I do know of these That therefore only are reputed wise For saying nothing.
Fair is foul, and foul is fair, hover through fog and filthy air.
Blest are those Whose blood and judgment are so well commingled, That they are not a pipe for fortune's finger To sound what stop she please.