Pale as his shirt, his knees knocking each other, / And with a look so piteous in purport / As if he had been loosed out of hell / To speak of horrors,

Man delights not me; no, nor woman neither, though by your smiling you seem to say so.

Your noble son is mad.

Since nor th’exterior nor the inward man / Resembles that it was.

That he is mad, ’tis true: ’tis true ’tis pity; / And pity ’tis ’tis true.

Fell into a sadness, then into a fast, / Thence to a watch, thence into a weakness, / Thence to a lightness, and, by this declension, / Into the madness wherein now he raves, / And all we wail for.

But with a crafty madness keeps aloof / When we would bring him on to some confession / Of his true state.

There’s something in his soul / O’er which his melancholy sits on brood, / And I do doubt the hatch and the disclose / Will be some danger,

Excellent, i' faith; of the chameleon's dish: I eat the air, promise-crammed: you cannot feed capons so.

Ecstasy! / My pulse as yours doth temperately keep time, / And makes as healthful music. It is not madness / That I have utter’d.