Though this be madness, yet there is method in't.
Madness in great ones must not unwatched go.
Oh, that way madness lies; let me shun that.
Like madness, is the glory of this life.
Love is merely a madness.
O God, O God, how weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!
Love is . . . a madness most discreet
I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.
Love is merely a madness, and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do.
ROSS You must have patience, madam. LADY MACDUFF He had none: His flight was madness: when our actions do not, Our fears do make us traitors.
O! Let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven; keep me in temper; I would not be mad!
Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs; Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes; Being vexed, a sea nourished with loving tears. What is it else? A madness most discreet, A choking gall, and a preserving sweet. *Here’s what love is: a smoke made out of lovers' sighs. When the smoke clears, love is a fire burning in your lover’s eyes. If you frustrate love, you get an ocean made out of lovers' tears. What else is love? It’s a wise form of madness. It’s a sweet lozenge that you choke on.*
Love is merely a madness; and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do; and the reason why they are not so punish'd and cured is that the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers are in love too.
Love is a smoke rais'd with the fume of sighs; being purg'd, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes; being vex'd, a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears; what is it else? A madness most discreet, a choking gall, and a preserving sweet.
Lay not that flattering unction to your soul, That not your trespass but my madness speaks.
But there is no such man; for, brother, men Can counsel and speak comfort to that grief Which they themselves not feel; but, tasting it, Their counsel turns to passion, which before Would give preceptial medicine to rage, Fetter strong madness in a silken thread, Charm ache with air and agony with words.
My wits begin to turn.
For to define true madness, What is't but to be nothing else but mad?
How strange or odd some'er I bear myself, As I perchance hereafter shall think meet To put an antic disposition on.
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