“I'm sick in the heart.”

“The question is: is it better to be alive or dead? Is it nobler to put up with all the nasty things that luck throws your way, or to fight against all those troubles by simply putting an end to them once and for all? Dying, sleeping—that’s all dying is—a sleep that ends all the heartache and shocks that life on earth gives us—that’s an achievement to wish for. To die, to sleep—to sleep, maybe to dream. Ah, but there’s the catch: in death’s sleep who knows what kind of dreams might come, after we’ve put the noise and commotion of life behind us. That’s certainly something to worry about. That’s the consideration that makes us stretch out our sufferings so long.”

“There is method in my madness.”

“Vivimos tiempos desquiciados. ¡Oh, nefasta suerte, que me hiciste nacer para enmendarlos!”

“I wear my rue with a difference.”

“For this relief much thanks. 'Tis bitter cold, and I am sick at heart.”

“The commonwealth is sick of their own choice;Their over-greedy love has surfeited.An habitation giddy and unsureHath he that buildeth on the vulgar heart.”