“I will be brief: your noble son is mad:Mad call I it; for, to define true madness,What is't but to be nothing else but mad?”

“O! Let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven; keep me in temper; I would not be mad!”

“That he's mad, 'tis true,'tis true 'tis pity,And pity 'tis, 'tis true—a foolish figure,”

“Wherefore was I to this keen mockery born?When at your hands did I deserve this scorn?Is't not enough, is't not enough, young man,That I did never, no, nor never can,Deserve a sweet look from Demetrius' eye,But you must flout my insufficiency?”

“Lay not that flattering unction to your soul, That not your trespass but my madness speaks.”

“I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.”

“Love is a smoke made 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.”