Olivia: What's a drunken man like, fool? Feste: Like a drowned man, a fool, and a madman: one draught above heat makes him a fool; the second mads him; and a third drowns him.

A man should be what he seems.

Yet this my comfort: when your words are done, My woes end likewise with the evening sun.

My dull brain was wrought with things forgotten.

And he goes through life, his mouth open, and his mind closed.

I have a bone to pick with Fate

Time and the hour run through the roughest day.