Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t.
Lovers and madmen have such seething brains, such shaping fantasies, that apprehend more than cool reason ever comprehends.
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, are of imagination all compact.
O let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven! Keep me in temper; I would not be mad!
Madness in great ones must not unwatched go.
Like madness is the glory of this life, as this pomp shows to a little oil and root.
I am not mad: I would to God I were, for then ’tis like I should forget myself.
Dispute not with her; she is lunatic.