Though this be madness, yet there is method in't.
I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.
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.
We are not ourselves When nature, being oppressed, commands the mind To suffer with the body.
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