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.

Thanks, sir; all the rest is mute.

Romeo: Courage, man; the hurt cannot be much. Mercutio: No, 'tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church-door; but 'tis enough, 'twill serve. Ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a grave man.

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

Journeys end in lovers meeting.

The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, are of imagination all compact.

If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an improbable fiction.